


More Important Things

by EvieWarner



Category: Big Hero 6 (2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Brotherly Love, M/M, Red String of Fate, Sibling Incest, Soul Bond
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-04-05
Updated: 2016-01-05
Packaged: 2018-03-21 10:49:04
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 23,301
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3689418
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EvieWarner/pseuds/EvieWarner
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For as long as Tadashi can remember, the red string tied around his wrist has always been there.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [InkStainsOnMyHands](https://archiveofourown.org/users/InkStainsOnMyHands/gifts).



> Once again, this was meant to be 3000 words, give or take. *glances at increasing word count*

For as long as Tadashi can remember, the red string tied around his wrist has always been there.

He can't recall a time when he looked down at his hand and didn't see it; a thin, red string knotted into a delicate bow that Tadashi has never felt the urge to untie.

It exists only in his peripheral vision, distinct anytime his eyes focus elsewhere, yet transparent when he zones directly upon it.

Whatever resides at the other end of it is beyond him. He's tried time and time again to follow it and find out where it leads, but whenever the thought crosses his mind, the trail fades after he takes a maximum of five steps, unwilling or perhaps unable to reveal what it connects to him.

Tadashi lost count of how many nights he lay awake wondering how far away it stretches, and what—if anything—awaits him at the end.

More than once, he's considered seeking advice. But no one else can see it, and for that simple reason, Tadashi has never breathed a word.

Nonetheless, it's always there. Tied snugly around his littlest finger, deceptively sturdy and never fraying, and with each step he takes Tadashi wonders exactly what it is he's walking away from.

More than that, he ponders if he'll ever find out.

It's only a few years into his young life, during the summer between kindergarten and elementary school, that Tadashi feels the string _do_ something.

-0-

He's spending the day with Aunt Cass when it happens.

Hands-down, Aunt Cass has always been his favourite relative: she's feisty and scatter-brained, but possesses a wicked sense of humour and makes the best cinnamon rolls, which she always offers him during visits to her café. Often two with a sly wink, if his mother isn't looking.

Today, Tadashi can't ignore the subtle shift in his aunt's behavior. It's nothing bad, thank goodness. It seems the opposite, in fact.

Aunt Cass is distracted, shooting periodic glances at the clock in-between taking orders, and she can't seem to keep herself steady. Be it wringing a dish towel, squeezing too much icing from the bag, or wearing groves in the floor from frantic pacing, she's constantly on the move as if fueled by a sugar high she can't descend from.

But despite her erratic behavior, her eyes are bright and her cheeks are pink. She looks how Tadashi feels on Christmas Eve.

"Aunt Cass?" he calls to her as she passes by his table, on her sixth lap around the café. Her attention is upon him instantly.

"Yes, sweetie?" She eyes his half-eaten cinnamon roll, then her eyebrows dart up. "Oh! You don't like the ones with raisins, do you? Sorry, Tadashi, I'm—gosh, I don't know what's wrong with me today. I'll get you a fresh one, straight from the oven. Better snag one now before the lunch time rush, right?"

Before Tadashi can muster a response, Aunt Cass vanishes behind the counter. By the time she returns and all but crams the pastry into her nephew's mouth, an elderly lady in a halter top settles herself at a table across the room, whisking Aunt Cass' attention away until the predicted lunch time rush keeps her busy for the remainder of the visit.

Tadashi vacates his table for the sake of a lovey-dovey young couple, and decides to do his high-strung aunt a favour by helping out. But he nearly drops one of the soapy dishes when he feels a soft tug on the red string.

Eyes abnormally wide, Tadashi stares.

Just the once; such a gentle tug it had barely been as such. But it _definitely_ happened, that much he knows, and there is no way it was a fluke.

_No way_. _There is no way_... _right?_

As real as the string feels coiled around his pinky, to anyone and anything else, it's like a tendril of smoke. Oblivious passersby walk right through it, it never gets caught between doors or on the coat rack, yet it fails to wear down however much its unknowingly tampered with.

But despite the odds ...

"What was that?" he asks quietly to no one, frowning at the barely visible bow.

That's the first, and presumably only change: as Tadashi squints and twists his wrist, the faint line of red never leaves his sight. He blinks hard until his eyes start to water, staring at the transparent bow that seems to toe the line between existence and invisibility. He almost wants to believe his eyes are playing tricks on him, like when he stares too long at his bedside lamp and he's temporarily blinded by inaccurate patches of colour.

Somehow—and he can't fathom why—he knows it would be easier to convince himself that breathing isn't necessary for survival.

Not that he gets to ponder on the subject.

A sudden yelp from the café snags his attention, and Aunt Cass wanders in, pink-cheeked and teary eyed, to scoop him up in a bone-crushing hug.

Tadashi nearly chokes under the intensity, legs numb by the time she legs up, then she's gone as soon as she'd appeared. He clutches the countertop and stares, more than a little on edge by the bizarre turn of events.

Frustration begins to mingle with confusion as Aunt Cass proceeds to cheerfully skip around her nephew's questions, substituting answers with an affectionate ruffle of his hair until Tadashi simply gives up and returns to his interrupted act of goodwill.

The dishwater is cold by the time he returns, but a thin ring of warmth pulses through his chilled fingers, and burns away the last of his hollow doubts.

_Today's been weird_ , he decides, unknowing that it's far from over.

-0-

Something is decidedly off.

Tadashi makes that deduction the nano-second a bell jingles above the café door for the millionth time, this time announcing his parents' return. He can't put his finger on the 'why', and the 'how' becomes a dominant factor as he takes in the too-bright smiles on their faces.

"Tadashi!" his father cheerfully proclaims, crossing the space between them in three long strides and lifting his son off the ground. "We have some good news for you."

And there it is.

While Tadashi wants to match his father's grin, he's capable of little more than staring as his mother lightly bats her husband's arm.

"Not here, Tomeo," she scolds, but her gentle smile ruins it. "You promised to wait until we got home."

As they banter back and forth, one modest and the other a drama queen, Tadashi feels words fail him. The light mood lasts as they exit the café and strap him into the backseat of the car, both adults remaining tight-lipped over spilling the secret dancing upon their tongues. It's only when the car pulls into the driveway that Tadashi finds the means to break his silence.

"Mom, Dad? What's happening?"

They exchange a not-so subtle glance before his mother assures him, "Don't worry, darling. It's good news. _Very_ good news."

He's thoroughly intrigued and a little on edge by the time he's sat down on the sofa, his mother on his left and his father to the right, each grasping one his hands.

"I know this might be a shock, but guess what?" Not that she gives him time to guess. "You're going to have a little brother or sister."

It's a bit embarrassing how long it takes for that to sink in. Tadashi stares up at his mother, idly aware of his jaw slackening, until he eventually stutters, "Wh-what?"

Tomeo throws back his head with a chortle, patting Tadashi's shoulder as he receives another light slap from his wife.

"You're going to be an older brother, Tadashi," she elaborates, positively glowing as she speaks. "Isn't it exciting?"

There's so much he wants— _needs_ —to ask, but his vocal chords are paralyzed in his throat, which his father takes as the opportunity to throw in his two cents.

"We saw Dr. Sato today. I wanted to share the news when we phoned Cass, but your mother was insistent that we tell you in person."

"I had to make him promise not to spill the beans in the car."

"Oh hush, Maemi! It's a special occasion, can you blame me? Think about it—another Hamada in the house, won't that be something?"

The rest of their discussion is lost on Tadashi's ears as his mind races a mile a minute.

Him. An older brother. He was going to have a little brother or sister. Just the idea made him light-headed.

Tadashi has been an only child for all six years of his life. Granted, he can't remember the early part of those years, but what he can recall has always been a lonely existence.

Maybe it's harsh. He's not _alone_ , per se. He has a lot of friends, two loving and attentive parents, and lives in a very friendly neighbourhood. Really, he's never known the true definition of loneliness, yet he's never had the ability to shake that feeling. He listens to his classmates talk of their siblings, from annoying little brothers to aloof older sisters, and he feels pangs of envy.

Tadashi has never wanted for anything. Between his minimalistic desires and his parents' well-paying careers, the rare times he requests something has always been met. But as he watches a friend walk away with their sibling, hand-in-hand, Tadashi wishes he had a little brother or sister. Someone to joke around with, pulls pranks on, have sneaky sleepovers, elaborate inside secrets, and so much more that he would never experience as an only child.

It feels like strange irony that the one wish he never spoke aloud becomes the one that means everything and more.

-0-

Like any other child of his age, Tadashi knows very little of the phases of pregnancy. Around the fourth month is when he decides it was a happier time.

He tries to be helpful, knowing from the talk his father gave him that pregnancy can be a difficult time for a woman, but his level of success is a consistently moving target. Between his mother's delirious mood swings and ever-changing cravings, Tadashi creeps across fine glass as his father dashes out at three-thirty in the morning to buy a family pack of gummy bears from the twenty-four hour off-license down the road.

Tadashi is lying awake in bed as the front door closes and his mother patters about in her bedroom, grumbling words beneath her breath meant for no one's ears but her own. He humours the idea of getting up and offering comfort, but it's a fifty-fifty chance of being accepted with teary hugs and getting scolded for being out of bed at such an hour.

So he snuggles beneath warm blankets and rests a hand on his pillow. Months later, and the faint red blip against his skin never ceases to surprise him. Though in those countless observations made night after night, nothing else has changed. It's no more visible in the dark than it is in the day, and as docile as it had been for six and a half years.

It's curiosity that gives him the bright idea to loop the delicate string around his index finger, but caution negates the remainder of his intention. Four months prior, his fingers phased through the red string just like everyone else's, but now the thread is so very _real_ against his skin. And that makes it fragile.

He thinks back to the time his mother taught him cross-stitching. She occasionally snapped a length of thread with her bare hands when she couldn't find the scissors, an act she made look so easy that it fills Tadashi with anxiety now. If he tugged on the string, would it break? It's so slender, so devastatingly fragile that he feels just touching it has condemned it's fate, like times before when he unknowingly grazed a spider's web. However gentle he was in prying himself away, the frail web collapsed.

Oh, how he wishes he had just one clue to solve the mystery.

He'd long since given up on following the string. There wasn't much point, he realized, if the trail disappeared every time he thought about investigating. That itself never made sense to him—why did the string exist if it refused to serve it's purpose?

Still, he was talking about a semi-visible bit of string. That in itself was impossible, so why bother complaining?

Tadashi glances down at his hand as he lets the loop unravel. Unlike the spider's silk, the thread is undamaged by his touch. But it raises a thought, if it might be possible to follow the trail now that he can _see_ it fully.

His mind is set on the negative, but where's the harm in trying?

As Tadashi kicks back his duvet and sets his bare feet on the cold floor, he releases the breath he didn't know he was holding. There's no visible change to the string as he stands up, nor as he takes the first step forward.

So far so good, but it takes a full minute to manage a second step. Thirty seconds for the third. Barely five for the next.

Twelve steps later and he's by his bedroom door, light spilling in from the hallway, and the red trail hasn't faded.

Tadashi swears his heart skips a beat. Is this it? Does this mean he'll finally locate the other end? Or is this where Aunt Cass' advice of "knowing when to stop" comes into play?

He takes a moment to think about it rationally, however it might play out. Maybe it won't flicker and fade, but it's obvious he can't trek across San Fransokyo by himself, much less at night.

To the front door. That's as far as he'll go. And if it's still visible, he'll make preparations into seeing if he can go further in the morning.

But he barely reaches the top of the staircase when he hears a quiet, "Tadashi?" from his parents room. He freezes to the cold floor, craning his neck in the direction of his mother's voice.

"Yeah," he calls back. "I couldn't sleep. Was gonna get some water."

It's not a lie, not really. He sincerely couldn't sleep and, well, he'd have likely gotten a glass of water before heading back up, as usual. Either way, Tadashi dashes down the stairs before he can be called back, feeling just a slight ebb of guilt at doing so, and ends up wishing he hadn't.

He stands in the kitchen, way past his bedtime as the rest of San Fransokyo sleeps, and the red string around his finger isn't there.

Honestly, he'd have thought he'd be used to this disappointment by now.

As he lets his hand slump to his side, Tadashi fetches his glass of water, and ascends the staircase. He lingers just long enough to whisper, "Night, mom," before heading to his room.

"Tadashi, dear?"

His mother's voice is calm, devoid of the underlying bite that accompanies her wayward frustration. Tired she may be, but she's in a better mood. That, at least, is reassuring.

"Yes, mom?"

"Come in here for a moment, will you?"

In all good nature, he can't deny her that. Tadashi places his water on the hallway table, then nudges open his parents' door. The bedside lamp is on, filling the room with a comfortable glow, and his mother is swathed in bed sheets, looking tired and disheveled but smiling kindly through it.

She doesn't speak, merely extends her arms to her son, silently requesting his presence. Once he steps within her range, Maemi scoops him into a one-armed hug. She can barely lean forward due to her distended belly, making the exchange more than a little awkward, but Tadashi doesn't have the heart to criticize.

Though when Maemi lets go and pats the empty space beside her, within seconds Tadashi has circled round the bed and clambered onto the mattress. Any other day, he'd snuggle up to his mother's side and fall asleep nestled comfortably in the duvet, but he knows he can't really do that anymore. Not until there's another little boy or girl present to share the group hug.

He looks down at her swollen belly, which he knows will get bigger as the months drizzle on. It's surreal to think that's his brother or sister growing inside her, little by little each day, and Tadashi wonders what it's like for her.

He's held a baby only once, the first born of some distant uncle of a friend or other, but he remembers how _heavy_ little Rika was. Had Tadashi not been sitting, he knows he would have dropped her. His poor mother carries the weight that made his own arms die within the minute, only she can't let go for four more months.

Tadashi swears he will _never_ again get upset about his mother's mood swings. Who wouldn't be cranky in her predicament?

"You know, we still haven't decided on a name," she comments idly, tracing her index finger over the taut material of her shirt.

A name, huh? Tadashi hasn't considered a name. All this time, he thinks of his sibling-to-be as simply Otōto or Imōto. The thought of his mother requesting his input of naming his brother or sister is a little staggering.

But if he's honest, it's also a tad thrilling.

He thinks back to a time when he was told of the origins of his own name, when he learned the kanji for loyalty. His father said he knew in his heart it was the correct choice, while his mother claimed it was a lucky guess. First and foremost, it's necessary for your name to represent who you are, isn't it?

Except how could he possibly know what his sibling will be like before they're here? He tells his mother as much, and she nods slightly.

"I don't suppose we'll get lucky twice, hm?" she teases, ruffling his hair. "This is the worst part. Did you know your father and I spent two whole years trying to decide on a name for you? And that was before I was pregnant. Fortunately, he's laying off it this time. Thinks it'll come to him, like yours did."

Tadashi smiles with her, but his mind races. This isn't something that can be thought up in a single night, but as good a time as any to start. He thinks over the few kanji he knows of, a sparse selection ranging from 'love' to 'lucky' and 'generous'.

Meaningful, yes. But so generic. Not very specific.

"You're right. It's hard," Tadashi laments as he leans against the pillow. "It has to be perfect, or what's the point?"

"Very true. I suppose true genius can't be forced." She reclines comfortably against the pillow, eyes glazed in thought. "Five months along. You were kicking by this point."

"Really?"

"I thought we'd have to sign you up for soccer practice right off the bat. Gosh, I'm _this_ certain you were so impatient to be born you tried to break your way out. At least one of my children is considerate enough to ease up on the abuse." She places her hand to her belly and closes her eyes. "Nope, nothing. Maybe this one will be the lazy child, hm?"

"Maybe he's bidding his time."

She laughs. It's a little too loud, but unrestrained and melodious, and Tadashi can't help but smile with her. "Here," she lowers her hands. "Perhaps they'll kick for you."

His hands tremble as he places his hand to her stomach, enough that he's certain she feels it, and maybe his sibling does, too. Though Tadashi isn't sure what he's anticipating from this, he waits nonetheless.

His answer comes seconds later. In unison, both Tadashi and his mother stiffen, drawing short, sharp breaths.

Whoa. Was that—?

Yes. There's no denying it.

Tadashi feels the strain on his brow as his eyes widen to their limit, and he's pretty sure his jaw is hanging open, but frankly he doesn't _care_. That's his sibling; his otōto or imōto, and they're _kicking_.

They're kicking for him.

(And it would be years before he can put a name to the warm fluttering that envelops his heart.)

Truly, there are no words he can string together from his limited vocabulary to describe the sensation he feels beneath his palm. His unborn sibling's first ever movements, an active response to Tadashi's touch, and he can't keep the smile from his face after a particularly insistent nudge.

The movement seems to have given his mother a shot of energy, but Tadashi imagines she'd be more enthusiastic if not weighed down by the exhaustion caused by the halfway matured bun in the oven.

"Wow."

It takes Tadashi a moment to recognize the voice as his own, and it makes him smile all the more. Because really, what else is there to say?

The baby lets up barely a minute later, tuckered out by their first kicking, and Tadashi presses a light kiss to where his hand rested. He sleeps soundly that night in a nest of comfortable blankets, alongside his mother and unborn sibling.

And to unseeing eyes, the thread glows crimson.

-0-

His brother is due at the end of the month.

Yes, his little brother, not sister. While Tadashi told himself he wanted it to be a surprise on the birth date, he'd cracked exactly thirty-eight hours, twelve minutes, and fifty seven seconds after his parents returned from the ultra-sound, and had literally _begged_ them to indulge the information he'd forced them to keep under tight wraps.

In hindsight, he should be cross with his parents for their weak will. Or at least his father, as his mother had always been the tough walnut to crack.

Either way, Tadashi goes to bed that night too energized to sleep. A part of him is irritated at himself for his own weak will, but it's swamped in comparison to the awe he felt.

He is going to have a baby brother.

"The Hamada brothers," Aunt Cass chimes. "Two little boys! Oh, you'd better take care of him, Tadashi. You hear me?" She elbows Tomeo in the ribs. "A kid can't have anything better than an older brother. So you'd better be the very best."

That's a vow Tadashi already made months ago.

-0-

The red string is mostly dormant, but occasionally Tadashi feels a light tug, so subtle it's barely there. Just as it had done in the beginning. And while he never trusts himself to respond to the silent communication, the gentle movement blooms a warm, fuzzy feeling in his stomach.

Until today.

Today has been weird. Tadashi wouldn't go so far as to say it's bad, but everything from the breakfast waffles to the air he breathes sets him on edge. And he doesn't understand _why_.

Aunt Cass always told him to never ignore funny feelings. ("It isn't always just nothing. Those hairs on the back of your neck? They tell the truth.") She's never steered him wrong before now, so he sees no reason to break a good habit.

He's cautious, from the moment he opens his eyes through every step of his day. There's nothing remotely special about said day, even his parents seem blissfully unaware of the potential shift Tadashi can foresee but can't decipher.

Actually, he takes it back. There is _one_ thing about today that is glaringly out of the ordinary: the red string is uncharacteristically active. Once an hour, roughly, Tadashi feels that soft tug. It's as unnerving as it is reassuring. But it's only when a particularly sharp tug makes his whole hand twitch that Tadashi decides it is certainly _not_ a coincidence.

Trouble, perhaps? He envisions someone clinging to the other end of the string, desperately dialing out for help through morse code. Disturbingly, it doesn't feel too far off the mark.

His first instinct is to call his father, but Tomeo left ten minutes ago to restock the emergency supply of gummy bears. And on an unexpectedly nice day in early spring, he chose to make the journey on foot. He won't be back for at least an extra half an hour.

Somehow, Tadashi knows that's too long. So he takes option number two.

"Mom?"

His voices echoes up the stairway, and the ensuring silence is oppressive. Wrong, definitely wrong.

Tadashi runs up the stairs, skipping two steps at a time and nearly falling flat on his face, but his balance wins out and he skids to a halt outside his parents' bedroom door. For the life in him, he doesn't know why he stopped here specifically, but it feels like the correct choice and he's in no mood to question the bizarre sixth sense.

He knocks once, then twice, three times. No response. So he doesn't bother requesting entry, he barges right in.

Though the shock almost knocks him out, he's not regretful.

Maemi sits in the corner of the room, pale-faced and too sweaty as she clutches the fabric that strains over her bulging stomach. The carpet beneath her is stained with red.

"T-Tad—dashi," she whines through grit teeth, face scrunched up in agony.

For once in his life, Tadashi had zero remedy for this. What should he do? Call for help? Get towels? Hug her? Calm her down? Deliver the baby himself!? He trembles from head-to-toe, coldness creeping over his skin as his blood tries to flee his body, not unlike his mother's had.

Oh god, his mother is _bleeding_ and no amount of Band-Aids or "kissing it better" will fix up this injury. Options, remedies, what is he supposed to do!?

He's not ready. He can't do this. How was he supposed to prepare—

His mother arches her back, a deep groan rumbling in her throat as she cages in her audible pain. And the severity of it strikes Tadashi. This isn't 'normal,' it's a dangerous alternative.

Right here and now, could his mother die?

No.

No, it can't, _she_ can't—

And his brother, that baby boy safely inside their mother, will lose his chance to live if her heart stops beating.

_That_ awakens something inside Tadashi. His body acts before his brain can catch up. Somewhere alone the line, as he shakily coaxes his mother through a rhythm of deep, steady breathing, puts a damp towel to her sweaty forehead, and squeezes her hand as tight as she grips his, he holds the phone to his ear and relays the limited information he understands of the situation. He's certain that little of it makes sense, but as a couple in green burst upstairs and through the door, he realizes they must have gotten the gist.

The next few hours pass by in a flurry. And it must have been hours, because when he finally makes sense of things, the sun has vanished from the sky and darkness takes its place.

Aunt Cass is kneeling before him, gripping his shoulders and shaking him as he sits stiffly on a plastic chair in the white-washed waiting room. Wait, when did she arrive? She's crying, tear tracks drying on flushed cheeks, and speaking words Tadashi can't hear through buzzing ears. So he does the only thing he can: he reaches out and hugs her tightly.

The action breaks her. She sobs openly, arms tightening around her nephew, who cries loudly with her. It's cathartic to let loose the emotion he's wrapped up so tightly yet didn't realize was there, and the panicked fog in his mind thins substantially until everything is laid bare.

His mother.

His unborn little brother.

Are they safe?

"I think so," Aunt Cass whispers. Had he spoken aloud? "They won't tell me anything, but they should be. You helped them, Tadashi."

He frowns against her shoulder. Helped? What happened during those black-out hours?

Tadashi stares down at his hand, and so nearly faints in relief at the faint red string coiled around his little finger, no different than the day before. He doesn't understand the comfort that crimson blip provides, but he's so tired, so scared, so tempted to curl up and sleep until everything is safe and sound once more, that he curls up in Aunt Cass' lap as she strokes his hair and hums a lullaby off-key.

-0-

When he opens his eyes again, the soothing melody has ended. Aunt Cass sleeps fitfully in the uncomfortable chair, arms wrapped securely around her nephew like he anchors her to the Earth.

It's quiet and still dark. Where is the clock? Would moving his head rouse his aunt? She looks so exhausted, it wouldn't settle well on his conscience to deprive her of much needed rest. So he nuzzles closer, his personal shield from the reality he doesn't want to think about, and stares down at the red string.

Tadashi knows full well that he could stare at the opaque bow for as long as he needs to breathe and he could never become desensitized to its hypnotic spell.

But the other end is so _still_ , and anxiety twists his stomach into a knot. Is everything alright? Has their cry for help been answered? Does anything or anyone hold the other end?

He supposes there's only one way to find out.

Many times before, he's practiced this one little trick, should the day come in which he dares himself to take the extra step. He repeats the notion unconsciously sometimes, coiling then loosening the thread around his index finger, a small habit of his that picks away at his unease bit by bit.

And the red string seems so fragile still, neither stronger nor weaker eight months on, but Tadashi can't bear lack of answers anymore.

With a deep breath, he tugs on the string, so painstakingly softly that his finger barely twitches. For a while, he doubts the reaction was felt by the person or place on the other end, and he doesn't want to push his luck.

But how long is it later? Barely ten seconds, maybe. The pause drags on for what feels like an hour, but that's when Tadashi feels the light pull in response. No words are spoken, yet the action speaks volumes.

And Tadashi sleeps curled up with a smile on his lips and a burden lifted from his heart.

-0-


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Baby!Hiro is a gem. I accept no arguments.

Today is the day.

For eight long months, Tadashi has been on tender hooks, relentlessly plagued by a tropical storm of anxiety, concern, and a little anticipatory.

He's going to be a brother. An _older_ brother. Very soon, he would officially have a little brother.

Despite months of hearing the phrase repeated in more variations than he cares to count, the weight of it all has barely sunk in. By the end of the day, Tadashi was going to have a little brother, a little baby boy named Hiro.

Hiro Hamada. The name feels so perfect on his lips.

His parents had swiftly fallen in love when he'd presented the name during an evening of idle chatter. Though questions to the meaning behind it prompted raised eyebrows.

The kanji for abundant.

"Why that?" they'd asked, and Tadashi had smiled.

"Abundant means there's plenty of it. We don't know what he'll be like, but he'll at least be really good at it."

Perhaps they didn't have the heart to see any flaws in seven year old logic, or they saw resounding truth in the statement, but as Maemi pondered over the choice for a good long moment, her return to reality was met with twin smiles.

"You're absolutely right, Tadashi."

Now the name rings in Tadashi's mind as the waiting reaches a peak. It's downright torture; a small eternity slips by until a nurse, dressed in a strange uniform like the others, emerges from down the hall to inform them that visitors are now permitted.

Aunt Cass bolts to her feet, barely keeping her balance as she struggles to maintain the patience to wait for her nephew to keep pace.

Inside the room, Maemi lies on a bed, her exhausted and pale form propped up by half a dozen pillows. Yet she glows with unrestrained joy and Tadashi swears there are tears in his father's eyes, too.

But his attention is drawn to the tiny, blanket-wrapped bundle in his mother's arms. He can't see who the blankets contain, and the frustration simmering from the long wait finally bubbles over as he impatiently demands, "Where is he?"

If the adults consider him rude, they don't show it. Or don't care.

His mother beams at him. "Right here, Tadashi," she coos. "Say hello to Hiro. Your new baby brother."

She adjusts her position just so as Tomeo crosses the room to hoist Tadashi up, settling the boy in the bedside chair as Maemi leans over carefully to show him the bundle.

And it takes all Tadashi has not to openly gawk.

The baby boy inside has a fluffy mane of black hair, brown eyes concealed behind closed eyelids, and puckered skin a generous shade of pink. This little boy is Tadashi _brother_.

Otōto.

"Hiro."

That little bundle remains docile, signs of life restricted to the soft rise and fall of his first breaths, an occasional whimper reaching Tadashi's ears.

"He's so—" _Ugly_ , is the word that comes to mind. That tiny head is disproportionate and lumpy, whilst the blotchy colour is not attractive. But that's unfair to say: _all_ babies look like this at first.

Once before, he'd voiced that sentiment to Aunt Cass whilst observing the newborns on a hospital programme. She'd given him a light slap to the back of his head with a teasing smile.

"Well, let's hold you underwater for nine months then squeeze you through a straw—see who's still attractive, then."

(He hadn't known what she meant back then, but even now, Tadashi knows he made the correct choice not to ask.)

But this is different. This is his brother. _His_ baby brother. Little Hiro Hamada.

"Hiro."

Hesitantly, he peels back the fold of the blanket with a finger, exposing more of that little face. The baby— _Hiro_ —twitches slightly in the realms of sleep, and Tadashi pauses, testing the waters, waiting for a light scolding that never comes.

So he grazes his finger against Hiro's pink cheek. And it takes all he has not to jump as two eyes crack open, revealing chocolate brown irises he knew would exist.

Tadashi swallows, suddenly nervous.

The baby looks so shocked it might've been funny if Tadashi weren't so stunned, eyes captivated as a miniature fist wriggles out from the blanket to rub against Hiro's scrunched face, pink lips parting in a yawn.

"H-Hiro."

That name, it's perfect cascading from his lips, so very _right_ that Tadashi can't help his smile.

Oblivious to the world around him, Hiro closes his beautiful brown eyes, tuckered out simply from opening them. Tadashi's heart beats something fierce in his chest.

A light, incredulous laugh resonates from behind him.

"He's infatuated."

-0-

For two weeks, seeing Hiro is a rare treat. His brother is so tiny, _too_ tiny, Aunt Cass says. Hiro was born too early, so he's a lot more fragile and needs to be watched over with utmost care.

But she promises him with a spark in her eyes, that Hiro is going to grow up healthy and happy. It's a bumpy beginning to life, but the rest of it will be smooth sailings.

They'll make sure of that. They're Hamada's, and a family sticks together.

Tadashi looks down at the sleeping infant, barely a week old and bundled up safely in white. Right then and there, he promises he'll always be there for Hiro.

-0-

It's an easy routine they slip into.

Maemi, physically drained from the traumatic birth, has her motherly duties taken over by Tadashi, who leaves no room for protest. It only takes a cup of green tea and a comfortable pillow to put his mother out like a light for several hours. She and Tomeo take tending to Hiro in shifts during the hours Tadashi's own needs get in the way of him satisfying his brother's.

There's no schedule or formal discussion: it simply happens and nobody questions it's authenticity.

Maemi sleeps soundly on the sofa while her sons play in the nursery, Hiro nestled safely in Tadashi's lap as the older boy observes his brother with eyes full of wonder. Yes, his _brother_. Tadashi has a little brother now, and Hiro's six months of life has made it no less _strange_.

It will always be strange, but of the good kind. How could anything be bad about this? As promised, Hiro is healthy and as happy as a baby can be. Even now, he reaches out with his tiny, starfish hands and clutches at fingers larger than his own with all the strength his developing muscles allow.

"You're perfect," Tadashi whispers with more honesty than he's ever needed.

But then something flickers in his peripheral vision, and wipes the smile from his face.

He might have dropped his brother in shock if the baby weren't nestled so securely.

Wait ...

—no.

No friggin' way.

How? Just ... _how?_

Hiro burbles happily in his lap, toying with his brother's larger hand as curiosity lights up chocolate brown eyes, like the appendage exists to be the most interesting thing across a billion galaxies.

It's faint, so barely there it hardly exists. But it clicks in Tadashi's mind, a silent reassurance that he isn't hallucinating the perfect red bow knotted neatly on Hiro's chubby finger.

Gently, he prizes his own finger from Hiro's grabby hands, and pinches hold of the red string. There's no denying it: they're connected. Seven long years of hopelessly embarking on the goose chase, then the pot of gold at the end of the trail ends up being _Hiro?_

As in, Hiro Hamada. His baby brother. What the—?

He isn't sure what he hopes to achieve as he lightly tugs the string. But as Hiro's brown eyes immediately divert to his own, a bit too intensive and focused for a child of his age, Tadashi knows as a logical fact that it certainly isn't this.

What else is there to say?

"Oh."

It breaks Hiro from his revere. His little brother gurgles with unmatched delight, and Tadashi can't help but smile. Maybe it's just delirium from shock, but he swears Hiro matches the sentiment to the best of his ability. Again, are babies capable of that?

Either way, it's unreal. All this time, and his year long quest to find who or what resides on the other end of the string reaches this conclusion. The trail leads and connects him to Hiro, since before the little one was even born, it seems.

Tadashi wants to laugh it off, he really does. But neon signs highlight the fact that an invisible string tied around his finger for seven years is classed as normal in his mind, yet he's spooked by the knowledge of finding the other end attached to the brother he's spent nights wishing for.

"Unbelievable."

-0-

He has questions. Far too many of them, and very little answers.

Tadashi teases the idea of introducing the subject to his parents, but he can't fathom the optimism to hope for an enlightening outcome to that. An invincible red string, unseen to the naked eye and impossible to touch, one end tied to their eldest son and the other linking him to his six month old brother? At best they'd discourage him from believing such tall tales, at worst they'd put the number of a child psychologist to good use.

So Tadashi does the only thing he can, and takes the matter into his own hands. He experiments, tests cautiously from afar, and keeps his results mentally documented.

The first test is spurred on by impulse.

It's the day after his discovery that Tadashi wanders past the nursery door and hears his brother crying. His father is at work and his mother is napping, so Tadashi peers through the partially open door.

Hiro writhes on his pale blue blanket, visible through the bars of his crib. He kicks his feet aimlessly and looks the definition of misery. It takes all Tadashi has not to dash across the room and scoop his brother into his arms until the baby's world is sunshine and lollipops again.

But he pauses midway through his first step. He sees the crimson trail easily now, still faint in his direct line of sight but finally complete, suspended in the air and leading directly into the bassinet.

Like clockwork, Tadashi coils the thread around his index finger and gives a gentle tug. The crying abruptly fades out, and Tadashi's heart lurches anxiously.

Hiro's tiny fists scrub against his tear-stained face and he lolls his head to the side, where twin sets of brown eyes meet.

Tadashi isn't sure how to describe the ensuing reaction, but it reminds him of a flightless robin who lives in the tree at the end of the garden, who chirps and shrieks for hours on end but loses the capability to be sad once mother bird returns. And Hiro reaches out his chubby fists, brown eyes bright and locked on his brother, producing the most insistent noises his vocal chords can make.

Tadashi scrambles across the room and kneels beside the crib, close to eye-level with Hiro as he slips his hand through the wooden bars. The baby grasps his hand with saliva-flecked fingers, and coos softly while Tadashi speaks.

"Hey, now. Why're you crying, Hiro? There's nothing to be sad about."

He lightly taps Hiro's nose with his ribbon-adorned finger, eliciting the most delighted squeal he's heard from his brother. Again, Hiro latches to the larger hand with his own tiny fingers. It's weak grasp anchoring Tadashi where he kneels, despite the concentrated strength the baby puts into it.

Not that Tadashi would pull away if his life depended on it.

Like countless others before it, that hour is a peaceful one. Hiro seems dissatisfied with what one would think to be prison bars separating them, but finds semblance in Tadashi slipping his entire arm through a gap up to his shoulder, stroking Hiro's fluffy curls and holding back a wince as his fingers get gummed down on.

He wants to hold his brother. To scoop him out of his wooden jail cell, as the baby would put it, and hug Hiro for as long as he dared. He's tempted, too, but his mother's stern words ring true in his mind, zoning in on the memory of the first and last time he'd attempted to do as such.

"Never pick Hiro up on your own, do you understand? It's not that I don't trust you, Tadashi, I'm just worried."

He'd felt a bit offended at the implications underlying an accusation. "Worried about what? I won't hurt him, not ever."

Something clicked in her eyes, then, understanding mingling with sadness at his belief. "Do you remember that vase you once had to hold, but ended up dropping?"

"It was _heavy_."

"Hiro is heavy, too. I know, I know, he doesn't look it. But I carried him for nine long months, so believe me when I say I know better than anyone. And he moves, too. He'll squirm and kick, then scream and probably end up puking down your back. You might react before you think. We've all done it."

That night came complete with horrifying dreams, jolting him awake with his heart beating a tad too fast. He stared at the ceiling through the dark, shivering at the " _what if_ ," that encounter could have brought.

Maybe he was overthinking the negative, but he recalled general natter of the consequences to dropping an infant on their head. Ranging from physical deformation, to mental defects, to outright death.

"I'm sorry, Hiro," he apologizes through the bars.

If a baby could frown, Hiro does so. He clings to Tadashi's hand, eyes boring into him almost accusingly.

"I'd pick you up, you know I want to. But what if I hurt you? I couldn't do that ... what if I did something really bad, and nobody could make it better? Then you ended up hating me, 'cause I'm meant to take care of you, but I couldn't and you wouldn't want to see me again—"

A rough yank on the string snaps Tadashi's jaw shut. He emerges from his rant to stare at Hiro, for lack of anything else to do. Clasped in one chubby hand is the red string, pulled taunt.

Tadashi swallows down his frazzled nerves. "But that'll never happen. I swear it." He gingerly cups Hiro's cheek, managing a smile that feels more genuine as his brother reaches out with his own free hand. A chubby hand grasps down on Tadashi's pinky, the red bows a hair width away as the older of the two feels his fear melt away.

"I pinky swear it. You can't break one of those, no matter what."

As if he ever had the intention to.

-0-

He repeats the test several times over until he's satisfied with the results.

As a baby, Hiro tends to cry at the drop of a hat, and he can mostly he soothed by receiving attention. ("He's a real drama queen," their mother insists.) When the source of his distress turns out to be hunger or a dirty diaper, then no amount of tugging on the string can ease his cries.

Hiro is six months old when Tadashi feels a tug on his end once again.

He's in his bedroom, elbows-deep in math homework he is determined to finish tonight, when he feels the insistent pull at his pinky finger. Though he hasn't felt the sensation since six months ago during Hiro's birth, it fails to surprise Tadashi anymore. He stares down at his hand, where the soft tugging ceases to let up, and his thoughts fly to Hiro.

His brother is downstairs with their mother, playing with blocks if Tadashi's memory serves him correctly. And it seems the baby has figured out the basic use of the red string.

Tadashi closes his math book, knowing full well the distraction won't let up, and walks into the living room where Hiro sits on their mother's lap, eyes fixed on the doorway by the time Tadashi walks in.

Homework discarded, Tadashi spends the evening playing peek-a-boo in their homemade fort of couch pillows.

He's never seen Hiro smile brighter.

-0-

Late-night fussing aside, Hiro is quiet. As his age expands, his volume level descends, and Tadashi sees that his parents are concerned. His otōto often stares out at the world around him without a peep; not a word, or even idle burbling falling from his lips.

Babies are _supposed_ to make noises beyond crying, right?

He often repeats this to Hiro. The baby's quasi-response of producing a few nonsense noises on occasion soothes their parents' worries, but as his first birthday approaches those sounds fade out. Hiro giggles and cries as routine reassurances, then looks and smiles in response to his name, but his otherwise silence stretches out long enough for Tadashi to worry, too.

"He's thinking," Tomeo assures them all one night. He kisses Maemi's temple as she observes their youngest stack up a tower of blocks. "Take a look at that face; he's taking everything in, first. Just you wait, one day he'll tell us all about what he sees and thinks. We just need to be patient."

Still, Tadashi watches Hiro stack blocks with the maximum precision a baby could have. The second-hand concern rubs him the wrong way; because _nothing_ is wrong, he reminds himself. Had anything been close to wrong in Hiro's eyes, then he'd know about it. His otōto has an uncanny knack for gripping his end of the string to demand condolence from whichever element is disturbing him.

Just last week, Tadashi was roused from his sleep by the incessant tugging. A thunder storm had raged outside; his little brother was silent in his crib, but visibly frightened until Tadashi knelt down close by and shushed him back to sleep.

He's urged his mother himself that this happens, and lack of visible development early on can be more of a positive than a negative.

"You know, they say that geniuses start speaking later. Kanji for abundant, remember?"

Every time, she smiles and admits he's probably right, but he can see the underlying fret rooted too deeply for a few words to dispel. It isn't until the fortnight before Hiro's first birthday that the concern dissolves.

Tadashi trudges home from school, shaking dew from his jacket before hanging it up, then commencing marching through the living room. His mother is perched in an armchair, nose deep in a book, while his father is sprawled across the floor beside Hiro, fruitlessly aiding the baby in building a house of cards.

(Or, "I'll construct the house, and you can watch," as Tomeo had likely worded it.)

"Hey, Hiro."

The baby's eyes dart up, but Tadashi immediately pegs something amiss. Usually, Hiro smiles or occasionally burbles his greeting, but today he has the strangest expression as he tracks his older brother's progress through the room. His bushy little eyebrows knit together, and Tadashi wonders with a degree of bafflement if his baby brother is giving him the _stink eye_.

No, wait. This is different, he decides. Tadashi watches Hiro curiously, pinning the expression as more thoughtful than angry. He opens his mouth to inquire aloud, when a voice that isn't his own chirps;

"Tadashi."

It rings across the room. High, clear, and slow, with each syllable its own separate word. Ta-Da-Shi.

He nearly doesn't recognize the voice, for lack of remembering the last time he'd heard it being used for anything beyond fussing.

The house of cards flutters gracelessly off the table, the book slips from slack fingers, then the room descends into anarchy.

Maemi leaps from her armchair, the maneuver nearly sending her flying, as Tomeo sweeps Hiro into his arms and stares into his eyes, shocked.

"Hiro," their mother breathes, one hand lightly cupping his cheek. "What did you just say?"

On the sidelines, Tadashi stares, his mind moving one step slower as the universe spirals around him.

A look from Hiro sends his heart aflutter, the baby staring wonderingly across the room as he repeats without stumbling, "Tadashi."

The cards, the book—scratch that, the whole world is forgotten as Tomeo coils an arm around Maemi's waist and dances with the two in his arms until all three squeal with laughter.

And Tadashi stands silently on the spot, eyes locked upon the gleeful infant who giggles unabashedly in light of his achievement. He takes his brother into his arms once his father relents, staring into Hiro's wide eyes as he places his starfish hand on the older's cheek.

"Ta-da-shi," he repeats. "Tadashi."

"Th-that's right, Hiro." He realizes the thickness of his voice, and swallows back tears. "Tadashi."

-0-

Tomeo is rightfully smug that evening. He was right, after all. Hiro has been listening, taking in the world bit by bit, and making absolutely certain the word is correct before he uses it.

"Tadashi," the baby sings on repeat, often forgoing a syllable in favour of, "'Dashi, 'Dashi!"

It's his first word, and he's letting the world know.

His hands grip Tadashi's shirt as he's lowered into his crib, brown eyes bright as he continues to burble, "Tadashi."

The older boy gingerly _boops_ his nose against Hiro's. "That's right, otōto," he murmurs with a smile. "My genius brother."

He _definitely_ doesn't imagine Hiro's smile this time.

-0-

After that, it's a steady development. Hiro's miniscule vocabulary expands bit by bit, generic words such as "Momma" and "Daddy" following his first, and eventually reaching the realms of "Okāsan" and "Otousan" by the time of his second birthday.

It's on that day specifically in which Hiro toddles over to his brother, smiles brightly and proudly declares, "Nii-chan."

The same feeling flourishes in Tadashi's chest, nostalgic from the moment his name spilled first from Hiro's lips, the day he held his otōto for the first time, and every reassuring twitch of the red string.

"Right as always, otōto," he says, forehead touching Hiro's. "You're amazing."

The toddler positively beams at the praise.

-0-

Oh yes, Hiro walks now.

Tadashi distinctly recalls the day, roughly a month after the baby's first birthday, when Hiro had been settled in his lap like any other Saturday, lazily watching the morning anime marathon in-between construction of Hiro's new block palace. (Simple towers had long since proved too easy a challenge.)

As Tomeo had wandered through the living room, yawning loudly and running a hand through chestnut hair, Hiro had watched his father with the most curious expression. Then his bushy eyebrows drew together, head tilting slightly to the side, and the puzzle pieces had clicked.

Learning to talk was old news; his otōto was setting his sights on walking. And like a good older brother, Tadashi had encouraged him, propping Hiro on his stubby legs and helping him stand stationary. Soon he progressed through taking an uncoordinated step, Tadashi's arms wrapped securely around his middle, until eventually Hiro had gained the body strength to hoist himself up on his legs with the support of the nearest sturdy object, only to land none-too gracefully on his butt midway through his attempted step forward.

But Tadashi would never forget the day when Hiro had wandered shakily, almost uncertainly from their mother's hold, and crossed his play mat to collapse in his older brother's waiting arms.

A happy occasion, but it spiraled down hill from there.

Because in short: _Hiro walks_. Crawling was bad enough, but perpetually curious, far too adventurous Hiro now has the power to get up and make a beeline straight towards whatever takes his fancy.

Sometimes, it's harmless, like his fascination with the TV remote or the contents of his mother's purse. But increasingly more often than not, Hiro finds interest in climbing—oh yes, he's adept at that, too!—the grandfather clock in the hall or poking around with the nearest sharp object that everyone _swears_ was left far out of reach two minutes ago.

Fortunately, for all the near misses, disaster never strikes.

How many times has there been, where Tadashi feels something playing up with the string? He knows it isn't Hiro's interference this time; for starters, the sensation isn't a gentle tug, but a mild vibration, as if someone held the middle of the trail and twanged the string.

But whatever it may be, it's useful. Tadashi sits with in the garden with his mother and Aunt Cass, when the slight action alerts him that Hiro has vanished from the picnic blanket in the middle of the lawn. It's only mandatory to follow the red trail to locate Hiro behind the shed, about to stick something highly unsanitary and probably _alive_ into his mouth.

Of course, Aunt Cass laughs as Tadashi bats _whatever it is_ from Hiro's grasp, scoops him up, and marches him back to the kitchen, where Operation: Clean Up commences with wet wipes and a copious application of hand soap until Tadashi is satisfied Hiro is germ-free from his venture.

"That boy," she chortles. "Tomeo wouldn't have been nearly so chivalrous. Maybe it's a brotherly thing."

Then Tadashi smiles, and allows her to believe it.

-0-

Tadashi doesn't need hindsight to tell him he lives a charmed life; he has loving parents, a brother he adores, a bright future, and more friends than he needs. It's a life as close to perfect as anyone could wish for.

Inevitably, something had to give.

He's spending the night at Aunt Cass' when the earth starts shaking. Hiro sobs in his arms as they cling to their aunt, who grips the door frame and urges them to stay still.

It feels like forever until Tadashi can stand steady on his feet again, unwilling and unable to coax his petrified brother from his arms. They sleep in the same bed that night, swathed in blankets promising one another things are safe now, there's nothing to fear.

Tadashi truly believes that until Aunt Cass nudges him awake, and the look on her face chips a piece from his heart.

"There was an accident," she whispers through tears. "Your Mom and Dad aren't coming back."

Sometimes, he hates being old enough to understand the world. He downright _loathes_ the impulse to listen in on his aunt and her visitors. But he sits on the top step in his PJs and drinks in the spoken details with a detached sense of horror.

It was a tragic accident, those voices say. It was a curse of bad timing; a long-shot stretching so far in the distance it's impossible to replicate the turn of events. Faulty tech was destabilized in the earthquake, and Maemi and Tomeo Hamada were killed in a crash of falling glass and scalding chemicals that took so long to quench their shuddering hearts.

The rest of the world slips away, piece by piece. Tadashi Hamada is an orphan at ten years old. In that instant, he blames everything and anyone, asking why the domino effect had to be lined up just so, why that _natural occurrence_ had to rob him of his parents, good people who didn't deserve to die so gruesomely—

Then the world clips back into place in unison with a tug on his sleeve.

It's not the string this time, but a tiny starfish hand attached to his shirt.

Tadashi stares through a thick veil of tears into Hiro's scared brown eyes. He shouldn't be crying, not now and not here. His parents are gone but he still has Hiro, and no one should see their nii-chan cry.

He pulls Hiro into his arms and muffles his sobs in a mane of black hair. He has Hiro, he'll always have Hiro. And through kisses and shushes, Tadashi makes a vow.

"It's okay, I'll protect you. I promise, Hiro. Never gonna leave you."

Hiro purrs melt into kitten snores as Tadashi runs his hand through fluffy hair, and Cass finds her nephews curled up against the top railings, snuggled so closely they're practically melded together.

She wraps her arms around them as Mochi joins in, and Tadashi is roused into consciousness to hear her promise that Hamada's stick together.

-0-

He can't sleep. Scratch that, will he ever sleep again?

It hurts. Oh god, it _hurts_ but Tadashi has no more tears to shed. He cries in private, locks himself in the bathroom with a pillow to muffle his dry sobs. Hiro shouldn't see this; he's already confused, worried for their parents as he meekly inquires when Mommy and Daddy are coming home, because it's been too long, they should have been here days ago—

His scared little voice makes Tadashi wail harder.

A gentle knock at the door, and his heart lurches. Bolt upright and blinking away his weariness—had he beaten the odds and collapsed in exhaustion?—Tadashi glances towards the locked door and swallows down the wedge in his throat.

"Y-yeah?" he calls back, loud as he dared. His voice is barely a whisper.

"'Dashi?"

No.

Oh god, no, he can't deal with this right now. Tadashi is a mess, curled up in the corner of the chilly bathroom, face blotchy and composure broken.

_For Hiro_. _Do this for Hiro_ — _you need to protect him now, like you promised_.

He breathes in deeply, once twice, three times, until his trembling hands are under his control again. "It's me. Did I wake you, otōto? Go back to bed, I'll be out in a minute."

But the shadow beneath the doorframe doesn't budge. A muffled thump indicates Hiro isn't feeling inclined to move.

"You're crying, 'Dashi," he whispers mournfully. _He knows_. _I'm supposed to hide this from him, but he KNOWS_ — "Please let me in."

But he can't. Not like this, not like this, because Hiro's heart will break, and Tadashi knows the scars won't fade.

"H-Hiro—"

"Please, 'Dashi?" that pained voice pleads. "You're hurting."

_It hurts_. _Hurts so bad, I can't let you feel this way, too, Hiro_.

A wet sniff.

_He's crying_. _Stop hurting him, Tadashi! Tell him it's okay!_

"Y-you help me when I'm hurting." Hope. Such a fragile hope. "Is it my turn? Can—can I help you, now?"

And Tadashi _breaks_.

His body works without confirmation from his numbed mind. The lock clicks open, the door swings instantly on it's hinges, and Hiro topples over from the lack of support, but lands safely in his brother's arms.

Then his fluffy hair is wet, tears spilling freely as Tadashi _cries_. And he'll regret his weakness in the morning, curse himself for exposing Hiro to this wretched pain, but for now he holds his otōto as close as the younger holds him, and they cry together.

"'D-dashi?" Hiro sniffles, face burrowed against Tadashi's collarbone.

Choked up, Tadashi can't verbally respond, but the most he manages is a terse nod.

Then he hears Hiro swallow heavily, feels the small bundle squirm in his lap as his otōto works up the courage to ask the forbidden question teasing on his mind, the brutal truth Tadashi foolishly hoped that maybe he could hide away forever.

"M-Mommy and Daddy." A sigh. Resignation. The naïve optimism leaves him. "They're not coming home."

No question. A fact.

_He knows_. _He KNEW_. _Of course he knew, he's smart_ — _why did I underestimate him? Stupid, STUPID!_

"But you'll stay." More hope. So devastatingly frail, easily diminished and desperate for reassurance. "Won't you?"

_Tell him_. _I have to tell him_. _He shouldn't need to ask_. _Never, ever again_.

Tadashi tightens his protective hold. "Of course I'll stay." Because there's no alternative, nothing at all, and Hiro has to know that. "I'll never leave you, Hiro. You and me, all the way, got it?"

And a tiny hand touches his own. Through an inky black mane, brown eyes sparkle and Hiro smiles so sweetly. "Got it."

-0-

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guess who spent a disproportionate amount of time deciding where to cut the ending? Hacked a chunk out of this one, but hey, that means I'm an extra 2000 words into the next chapter.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For all the bad weeks I've been having, one must think I lead an abysmal life. XD

Time flies by when one needs a breather, and trickles by like maple syrup on a cold day when one wants the day to end.

One minute his life is perfect and his family is whole. Then Tadashi blinks, and he can never go home again.

Aunt Cass refuses to let go of her vow. She wins custody of her nephews, realizing too late that as brilliant an aunt she is, she has no idea how to be a mother. But as she promised, Hamada's stick together, and Tadashi makes his second vow to be there for her as much as he is for Hiro.

It's a flawed dynamic, borderline dysfunctional in the months their mourning is fresh. Cass routinely forgets that growing boys can't live on a diet of cinnamon buns and hot wings; Tadashi struggles to find the non-existent balance of helping out in the café, nurturing his little brother, and maintaining top grades at school; whilst the times Hiro doesn't mutely observe the world, he finds solace in crawling away to one of his many hiding spots until his aunt's frantic yells coax him back out.

For the first two weeks, it's all about wandering through a fog of exhaustion, misery and grief. But time slowly fills the voids in their hearts, and Hiro is the first to laugh since the funeral.

It's of something so childish and stupid, naturally, where Mochi gets his head stuck in the napkin dispenser. Hiro clamps a hand to his lips to muffle his snorts, but past pink cheeks and bright eyes, he's fighting a losing battle.

It's Tadashi who smiles next and Aunt Cass chokes out the last of her mourning, then scoops her boys up into a group hug that sends them toppling over into a giggling, sobbing tangle. And Tadashi knows then, without a doubt, that they're going to be okay.

This time, he notices when the red string glows brighter.

-0-

Life goes on. It's eternally patient yet waits for no one, and Tadashi likes that a lot.

He's heard the stories of parents allegedly turning around, only to find their children have grown two feet higher in five seconds, have learned to play an instrument, and gained their high school diploma.

Now he has little reason to doubt their perceived exaggeration.

Hiro was tiny as a baby and remains petite as a child, all scruffy black hair and wide doe-like eyes that makes Tadashi's heart melt. As for instruments, he once _tried_ to play the drums (a.k.a. hit random pots and pans with a wooden spoon) until Aunt Cass met his "challenge" with a trumpet, and the ensuing noise war drew complaints from the deaf ladies down the street.

But when Aunt Cass is called in for a special meeting with Hiro and his headmaster, Tadashi worries. And tries to wrap his head around the notion that his adorable otōto must be in _serious_ trouble to invoke a gathering with school admins.

More than that, Hiro is in kindergarten. How, and he means _how_ does a child invoke that kind of terror?

Aunt Cass looks flustered as she returns to the café, bell chiming her return with Hiro scuffing along beside her, his young face unusually solemn.

"They want to bump him up a few years," their aunt informs Tadashi, while Hiro picks apart a cake pop. "He's been doing so well— _more_ than well, that they want to encourage his genius to flourish. Or whatever fancy wording they used."

Suddenly, Tadashi feels foolish for believing his sly little brother would get caught with his hand in the cookie jar. But then a scrape of wood against linoleum signals Hiro's leave from the table as he wanders upstairs, uncharacteristically silent.

And the worry comes flooding back.

"Remember a few weeks back, when Hiro solved that mathematical theorem?"

How could he forget? Many brilliant minds had been stumped, but for Hiro it had been like two plus two equals four.

_My little brother's a genius!_ Tadashi had gleefully sang that evening.

Then came the reporters, the proposals, the whole _your nephew is a prodigy, we'd love to have him at our institute_ that steadily had Hiro backing away into the shadows.

San Fransokyo wanted to put Hiro on a pedestal, whilst meek cries of "No!" fell on deaf ears.

Aunt Cass lets him out of cleaning duty to trail after his brother, the red trail weaving up the stairs into their darkened bedroom, where tufts of black hair poke out between the gaps in a blanket burrito.

"Otōto?" he inquires to the lump beneath Hiro's blanket. "D'you want to talk?"

A quick movement from beneath the fabric, which Tadashi is adept enough to recognize as the shake of Hiro's head.

"Do you need a hug?"

The blanket is promptly discarded as Hiro leaps off the bed and clings to Tadashi like a baby monkey. He relishes the hug for all its worth, snuggled up safely and purring as Tadashi combs a hand through his hair.

Mentally, Tadashi goes over the list of which factor is causing Hiro a majority of stress. His conclusion narrows down to his height.

Genius can be hidden behind a blank glance. But biology can't be manipulated at whim.

Hiro never breathes a word of his insecurities, not if he can help it. But Tadashi sees the genuine hurt in his eyes when Hiro scowls through the latest adoration of how _tiny_ and _adorable_ he is, remembers that time Hiro nearly broke his ankles when he snaffled Mrs. Matsuda's dress heels, or how he hangs upside down from the jungle gym in the park to let gravity do it's work.

If ever a thing Hiro dislikes, it's being short, age be damned.

"Want to tell me what's bugging you?"

Because anything he loathes more is being an open book.

Swathed in bed sheets, Hiro spills everything. About the test booklets they had him complete, the meetings, mentions of his IQ ("Whatever _that_ is," Hiro gripes.) and the ultimate decision to bump him into second grade once he's out of kindergarten.

Hiro tugs desperately on Tadashi's shirt. "What if they're mean? I _know_ they'll be mean, 'Dashi. I've heard those stories—" He chews on his bottom lip, brown eyes shimmering with unshed tears.

It's masochistic. Tadashi can't lie to his brother, not even now. So he takes a deep breath, wets his lips, and gingerly words his reply.

"I-I don't know, Hiro." His heart aches as Hiro quivers in fear. "Some people are just mean. They get jealous, or angry, or just pick on someone 'cause they can. _But_ —" To emphasis the word, he tightens his hold around Hiro. "—listen to me: I will _never_ let anyone hurt you."

Hiro is motionless for a while, enough that Tadashi might've thought he'd fallen asleep if not for the persistent trembling emitting from the younger's small frame.

"I mean it, Hiro. I'll be right there with you. I said I'd always be there for you, remember?"

_That_ gets a reaction. Hiro shifts within their hug, tilting his head so that brown eyes peek out from beneath a fringe of dark hair. And he watches cautiously, a tiny rabbit planning its next move from the safety of its burrow.

"I never break my promises."

Lip still caught between his teeth, Hiro mumbles something ineligible. At Tadashi's frown, the younger mutters into his chest, "Mommy 'n Daddy said that, too. Now they're gone."

...

Ouch.

Ah yes. Still hurt.

So Tadashi keeps telling the truth.

"They're still looking out for you, even if they're not here. But—" He cups Hiro's cheek, tilting his head up to meet his gaze. "—it's different when I say it. Brothers don't lie to each other. I'm staying right here, and I'm not leaving. Ever."

There it is: _hope_. Flickering hesitantly in brown eyes, Hiro lights up with the emotion. "Promise?" He lifts up his pinky finger, adorned with a quasi-visible bow, which Tadashi doesn't hesitate to link his own through.

"I said I'd never leave you, Hiro," he says firmly, and presses a kiss to the younger's forehead. "It's you and me, always."

-0-

For all its ups and downs, summer passes by in a cluster of bliss.

All too soon, that First Day comes.

Decked out in his favourite hoodie, bag arranged full of new stationary, Hiro stands petrified on the steps of elementary school.

Tadashi places a hand on his shoulder. "Hey, look at me," he asks. It's a long few minutes until Hiro complies, peering up through a dark fringe with wide, uncertain eyes. "You got this, Hiro. We built a hovercraft out of a dishwasher—if you can do that, you can do this. You got this, Hiro, I promise."

And he hopes, _hopes_ that the world will let him keep it.

Hiro, for what it's worth, is marginally brightened by the information, and squeezes Tadashi's hand a few moments longer before taking a deep breath and his first step forward.

The protective urge isn't new. But this time, it _hurts_ as he lets his brother slip through his fingers. Every ounce of self-control, and then some pooled together is all that keeps Tadashi from dashing after Hiro and shushing him with promises of bumping back several grades so they can embark through the schooling system all over again.

Hiro is overwhelmed by his much taller classmates, on cue with the bell ringing several blocks away.

His intent next is instinct, nothing more. For all Tadashi knows, the action would freak out his little brother more than he needs to be.

Tadashi is uncertain if Hiro forgot about the string's existence. It's not something he thinks can _be_ forgotten, but as a boy who has just discovered his voice, Hiro doesn't seem to have a filtering system. If something is on his mind, everyone else will know about it.

And he hasn't breathed a word of the red string.

So when Tadashi loops the string around his finger, tugging ever so gently in what he means as a reassuring action, it's disheartening to see Hiro twitch madly, as though he'd been dealt a mild electric shock.

From both ends, the string remains docile for the remainder of the day.

-0-

At the end of the day, Hiro waits for Tadashi under a cherry blossom tree. He looks as tiny and cautious as he had six hours prior, but lights up as his nii-san enters his line of sight.

He's deceptively evasive, clinging to Tadashi's hand in a vice grip the whole way home and standing maybe a little too close to be casual.

Aunt Cass catches the unspoken memo. She hugs her nephews in turn and promises a special dinner that night, then lets them upstairs to start their first day of homework.

It's just an excuse on Tadashi's part. He glances across the desk at Hiro every five minutes, his little brother silent and stoic as he works through math problems one-by-one until he closes the booklet whilst Tadashi is still on question one. Then he calmly excuses himself to pet Mochi for the hour between now and dinner.

Like clockwork, Tadashi goes through the motions to tug on the string. A single day of silence was torture, and Hiro's uncharacteristic mood is salt in the wounds. Eyes locked upon Hiro sat on the top step with a purring Mochi in his lap, the red string's activity goes unnoticed as that tiny hand combs through soft ginger fur.

-0-

Aunt Cass breaks her silence over hot wings.

"How was your day, sweetie?"

Her question is light, casual. Identical to the same inquiry she's made for most evenings in the past few years. But the ensuing pause is tense, as even Mochi ceases pleading for scraps to listen in.

Hiro stares down at his plate, considering. For a while, he doesn't look intending to answer, as if nodody had spoken. But then he smiles so faintly and picks up a wing.

"Good."

-0-

It's super late. He's awake, and he's nervous. Across the room, Hiro remains quiet, forgoing his usual routine of, "Night, 'Dashi."

Tadashi stares through the silence, eyes trailing along the thin red trail to where his little brother sleeps. Or feigns it.

By rough guess, it's an hour later that a _pat-pat-pattering_ of tiny feet against hardwood floor rouses him, and he rolls over in time to meet Hiro's wide eyes peering over the edge of the bed, starfish hands scrunched around the blanket.

"Up," Hiro whispers insistently, punctuating the word with a tug on the bedding. "Up, _up!_ "

Tadashi sits up, leaning over the bed to hoist his brother onto the duvet. Only for Hiro to promptly burrow _under_ said duvet and substitute Tadashi as a mattress. A fluffy mop of hair pokes out from the edge of the duvet, wide eyes staring down into a similar, curious pair.

"'Dashi?" the younger inquires, voice a high-pitched squeak.

"Mm?"

Hiro nuzzles his face against his brother's chest, head tucked comfortably under his chin. "Thank you."

And in the ensuing two years, if Hiro notices the glowing red blip, he says nothing at all.

Just like always.

-0-

Sakura blossoms are in full bloom, candy floss trees glowing against the amber backdrop of the sky, and embellishing the velvet green grass with soft, pastel-pink sprinkles.

It's the perfect afternoon to spend outside. And apparently, Tadashi isn't the only one to think so.

"Tadashi, hi," a voice chimes.

He turns, and instantly finds the name to her face: Tomoyo Mori, his lab partner in Chemistry. A kind girl, incapable of frowning, and someone he's rarely spoken to outside of the science block.

She's smiling now, tucking a strand of chestnut hair behind her ear as she looks at him expectantly.

"Hey," he greets. "Tomoyo."

She perks up. "You actually remembered little ol' me. I mean, who has the time to memorize anyone's name when you barely talk to them, right? I, personally—I'm terrible with names. Just remind me, you're _definitely_ Tadashi Hamada, ka-peesh?"

Oh, yes. Same girl out of class as she is in it.

"That I am, Tomoyo-san."

She giggles. "No need to be so formal! Skip the honorifics. We're friends, right?"

Friends? Acquaintances, yes. An extension of being lab-partners, but he hasn't really thought on it. "Uh, yeah. Yeah, I guess we are."

Thankfully, Tomoyo doesn't look offended by his fleeting bafflement. She upholds her smile, cocking a hip to the side and flicking dark curls over her shoulder. "Don't look so worried; my bark's worse than my bite." She laughs airily, eyes gleaming. "Unless you're a-okay with all that ... "

"Huh?"

"Oh nothing, nothing. Talking to myself."

There's no word in his limited vocabulary that can describe the emotion in her eyes. Her smile is still in place, somewhat wistful, and expectant, perhaps?

(He _really_ wishes he'd looked into a social studies class.)

Tadashi clears his throat, for lack of anything else to do. "So, uh, you're waiting for someone?" It's a reasonable question: why else would a teenager linger around the entrance of elementary school on a Friday afternoon?

Tomoyo shrugs. "Kind of," she muses, staring aimlessly down the street. "More like, wondering if they realize, you get what I mean?"

Frankly, no.

One part regret and two parts relief, he doesn't get the time to ponder it.

"Tadashi."

The timing is too on-point.

Barely higher than his waist, Hiro stands by Tadashi's side, his countenance suggesting his lunch consisted of some very sour lemons.

"Hiro." He tries to keep his tone light. Pausing, he clears his throat before continuing, "Right, yeah. Ready to go home?"

Tomoyo quirks her head. "Oh, so soon? I was thinking, maybe, we might—"

"Home." A tiny hand clamped on Tadashi's sleeve, Hiro sharply tugs. "Wanna go home. _Now_." His eyes narrow, not at either party but at the ground, as though his irritation were directed at a particularly offensive ant.

Confliction is like a series of needles in his skin; it'd be rude to ditch Tomoyo on the spot, whilst aggravating a disgruntled Hiro promises an unpleasant weekend.

Fortunately, bemused Tomoyo may be, she is far more adept in (and understanding of) avoiding socially awkward get-togethers. "Aw, are you tired, too, little guy?" she coos. "Guess I won't keep you, then. See you on Monday, Tadashi."

She turns on her heel, flashing him a winning smile and—was that a wink?

Now _he's_ the bemused one, eyes locked on Tomoyo's retreating figure until an irate yank on his sleeve threatens his sense of balance.

Hiro glares up at him, eyes narrowed and lips pursed.

Tadashi is already dreading the walk home.

-0-

Once upon a time, Hiro's silence would be a miracle. A rare snippet of peace to hear oneself _think_.

Now, it isn't reassuring.

Scowl aside, Hiro is a literal angel on the walk home. He stays by Tadashi's side, good as gold, waiting for the green light to cross the road, doesn't whine about the heat giving him blisters, nor beg for gummy bears as they pass by his favourite sweet shop.

If Aunt Cass is perplexed by his unusually perfect behavior, she doesn't show it. She bustles about the café, sparing a moment to hug them both in turn, and promises 'Family Time' begins as the regular time.

Upstairs, Hiro quietly gets started on his homework, no prompting required, and completes it within the hour. He doesn't flinch as Tadashi retreats to his bedside and pulls across the divider, as though the rice paper may be as effective protection as a steel gate when Hiro's inevitable fury bubbles over.

Only the newfound silence is a bit _too_ compelling. The novelty of studying in peace draws Tadashi in; he's immersed in a book when he feels the tug again. The unexpected, almost forgotten feeling makes him jump in unison with a gasp, then a voice from the other side of the rice paper divider snags his attention.

"You see it, too, don't you?"

Hiro's tone is blunt, clipped. It takes a full minute for his words to sink in, and the book slips from Tadashi's hold as his eyes widen.

It's not a question. He _knows_.

A mental slap. _Of course he knows_. _When am I going to quit underestimating him?_ By this point, the revolving revelation was surpassing shame to land squarely in the realms of embarrassment.

The younger shoves the divider aside and slips through the opening to scramble up and sit on Tadashi's bed, brown eyes narrowed and demanding.

It's not the first time Hiro has come to him seeking answers on subjects his young mind shouldn't be privy too, but it's the first time Tadashi denies him answers due to equal cluelessness on his part. He clears his throat as Hiro looks at him expectedly, idly fiddling with the red string.

_What am I supposed to say? Do I lie? Change the subject? Be truthful and pray this'll end well?_

The younger huffs at lack of answers. "Just tell me, 'Dashi. You're hiding something, aren't you? Don't lie to me."

Little snag in the whole lie detection thing: it works both ways.

Hiro piles on the innocent kid routine to lie his little head off about the incident involving a thumb tack on his crabby old teacher's chair, then gets off scot-free with a gleaming halo above his head that only Tadashi knows is false. On the flip side, Tadashi's perfect reputation would immediately let him get away with murder, but Hiro would see through the deceit as though he stood on the opposite side of the window.

It's not a reassuring thought.

"I—" he croaks, then winces. _Yikes, was that MY voice?_ He forces himself to swallow, then slowly continues, "Look, I can't—tell you right now. I really can't ... " His voice chokes up as Hiro's scowl deepens.

"Why not?" To emphasize his point, Hiro gives the thread a sharp yank. "'M just wondering—" He pauses as larger hands envelop his own, and stares up into his brother's flustered eyes.

Tadashi knows his cheeks are a little too pink, and that Hiro is close enough to notice, dim lighting or not. But he steels himself and meets his brother's gaze, promising with firm resolution, "We'll talk about it when you get older, alright buddy?"

Curiosity dissolves to make way for displeasure; Hiro's lower lip juts out and he snatches his hands out of reach. "Fine, whatever," he murmurs. He then slips off the bed, slams the divider shut, and patters across the room to the safety of his beanbag cocoon.

Tadashi feels like hitting himself.

So they'll talk when Hiro is older. Which begs the question: will that point be days from now, weeks, months, or years? Or might he wind up postponing it until his dying day?

_As Hiro would let me wait that long_.

One thing Tadashi loathes is uncertainty, and a dash if it stirs the discomforting brew in his stomach. He'll think this through tomorrow, make semi-stable plans as to whenever the inevitable due date will make an unwelcome crash landing.

He only hopes by then, he'll actually have answers to give.

-0-

By Saturday evening, Hiro's meager patience has run its course.

Tadashi nearly misses the years in which the red string was docile. His little brother's new habit of tugging the string whenever he's bored or overly-hyped (a toxic and permanent combination) adds an extra gram to the pressure building up on Tadashi's shoulders.

It's new territory. He's fifteen years old and stressed for all the wrong reasons. His peers worry over sex and dating and _he'll never know I exist!_ whilst Tadashi sits on the sidelines with exploration of his "natural developments" on hold to fret over a string nobody can see or touch, but it very much exists.

It isn't science. Oh, no. If it were, he'd feel soothed by knowledge that the answer exists. Lucky dip shots in the dark have never been his style.

Who could he talk to? What experiments can be conducted? Where does the answer lie? How does an invisible string exist?

They're answers he is in desperate need for, but Tadashi's focus is repeatedly butchered by a series of tugs on his little finger, in unison with the twitching of his eyebrow.

And an inky blot in the corner of his vision steadily creeps closer.

He tries not to sigh. "Anything I can help you with, Hiro?"

A dip in the couch besides him as Hiro clambers up, head cocked to one side. "You're avoiding me," he accuses. "Why? What did I do?"

_Good work, Tadashi_.

He tries futilely to explain, "You didn't do anything, Hiro—" But a sharp tug cuts him off, and Hiro meets his gaze with a look far too knowing for his eight years.

"Does it make you uncomfortable?"

With one tiny fist holding onto the red string, blatantly trying to stall for time would have Hiro storming off in a huff. An unidentified emotion drains from Tadashi, and with it goes his ability to speak; he opens and closes his mouth a few times, willing his mind to spout out a simple yes or no, but his vocal chords are dumb struck in his throat.

Accusation evaporates from Hiro's eyes as he sighs, letting the red string fall from his slackened grip. "It's not normal, is it?" he says mournfully. His dejection jump starts Tadashi's voice.

"I-I don't—"

" _No_. It makes you uncomfortable." Brown eyes avert their gaze as Hiro murmurs, "'M sorry," quiet enough that Tadashi nearly misses it. Then he shuffles to the end of the couch in preparation to slink away, but he stares back up as Tadashi's hand latches to his upper arm.

"Don't apologize, Hiro. It's just complicated, but I promise we'll discuss it when you're older."

"I'm smart, 'Dashi. Why can't you tell me now? 'S not bad, is it? I don't get why—"

"It's not bad, just something you won't understand until you're older."

"But you promise you'll tell me."

Tadashi holds up his little finger. "I _promise_. Really think I'd lie to you, otōto?"

Reluctant it may be, there's the smile he loves so much. "No. Never."

-0-

The bath water is hot by the time he slinks in, steaming up the small bathroom and flushing Tadashi's skin pink upon contact. A cold shower is preferable, second only to migrating inside the refrigerator to claim residence next to the frozen peas. But winter in San Fransokyo is brutal, and a layer of frost lingers in his hair despite the heat. He's not in the mood to meet a slow death via pneumonia.

At least he has privacy. The old lock is creaky and downright unreliable—even Hiro would have little trouble ramming it open—but Aunt Cass is surprisingly strict about respecting one's need for solitude.

Where eternally inquisitive little brothers enter the equation, it's a neat implement.

Taking a deep breath, Tadashi slides beneath the water.

His heartbeat pulses through the water, drowning out the patting of Aunt Cass' slippers and Mochi's distant meowing. By the time he resurfaces, it's difficult to make sense of who resides where in the house.

Plus he can blame the hot water for his flushed cheeks.

"'Dashi?" a muffled voice from the opposite side of the door.

_Speak of the devil_. "It's me," Tadashi calls back, pulling his knees to his chest. "Is something up?"

"Been thinking. Can I come in?"

To retrieve something, inquire as to something face-to-face, or sit on the toilet lid and discuss any random subject on his mind. Hiro swiftly picks open the lock, then kicks the door closed as he patters inside.

"Need something, Hiro?"

"I'm cold, 'Dashi. And dirty. Can I get in, too?"

"Uh—yeah, sure."

It's not a case of self-consciousness. A gangly fifteen year old Tadashi may be, it's difficult to feel embarrassed under the non-judgmental watch of his eight year old brother. They've shared baths together in the past, up until six months ago, when Hiro marched into the kitchen in his PJs and declared himself "too mature" to share with his nii-san anymore.

(Aunt Cass had found the exchange frightfully amusing.)

For his part, Hiro is unashamed of his own nakedness, wriggling out of his clothes and clambering into the bath without hesitation.

"Aren't you getting a little big for this, otōto?" Tadashi asks, hot water sloshing about at Hiro's maneuver. "What happened to being 'too mature' to share baths anymore?"

"Shut up."

Tadashi chuckles, combing a soapy hand through dark hair. "So what's got you thinking so hard?"

Hiro shrugs. "Everything, I guess."

Tadashi leans away for a moment, selecting a shampoo bottle and popping off the lid. "You guess?" he parrots, beginning to lather the concoction into Hiro's wild mane.

"Yeah, I guess." He leans back into Tadashi's hold, obediently tilting his head as the older scoops cups of water to rinse the lather with careful movements.

Not a single drop gets in his eyes.

"You mind sharing?" Tadashi picks up the washcloth, soaping it up before gently scrubbing it over his skin, starting at his shoulders and working down. "Or are you still too mature to share anything with your brother?"

"'S not normal, is it?" Hiro scowls at the water. " _I'm_ not normal."

The washcloth slips from Tadashi's hand, instantly forgotten. "Where did you get that idea?" he demands, appalled.

"People say it a lot. That I'm not like the other kids, then they get mad 'cause they think I'm stuck up—"

" _Hiro!_ " He doesn't mean it to come out so sharp; an ebbing of guilt prickles him as Hiro jumps. "S-sorry, but, who's been saying that?"

"Some jerks in my class."

Images flash in Tadashi's mind against his will, horrific images of his little brother slinking away from taunts, tears staining his cheeks from hateful jabs, pulling his sleeves down low to conceal bruises—

_Oh god, oh god_. "You don't believe them, do you? If they're jerks, then they'll say anything to hurt you, even if it's a lie."

"But I'm not normal, am I? And this—" He holds up a hand, red bow eye-level with Tadashi. "—isn't normal. Don't lie to me, 'Dashi."

He slowly runs his tongue over dry lips. "No, it's not normal. I don't know if anyone out there has the same thing we do. But when is abnormal necessarily a bad thing?"

"When people hate you for it."

"Then it sucks to be them; being cruel for no reason is a bad thing. But you're not cruel, Hiro. You're kind, and smart, and _special_. It's a gift."

Brown eyes look astonished for a while, alight as the words sink in one by one ... but then Hiro's face crumples. "I don't want it," he mutters bitterly. "I wanna be normal, 'Dashi. I wanna be like you."

He snorts. "Thought you said I was boring?"

Hiro stares down at his misshapen reflection in the water.

"Hiro, if people hate you for being you, then weed them out. They're not worth it." He tightens his hug. "The ones who love you will always stick around."

For a moment, Hiro remains still, as though nobody had spoken. But then he twists and turns in Tadashi's hold, loosening his arms until they're face-to-face. "People like you?" he murmurs, a smile on his face.

It's only natural to smile back. "I love you, otōto."

Then Hiro boosts himself up marginally, leaning forward so his lips connect with the bridge of Tadashi's nose. "Love you, too, nii-san."

-0-

It's not even wishful thinking anymore.

Tadashi has no idea where to begin on the subject, and the years to come don't look promising in the answers department. He suspects Hiro recognizes his perpetually clueless look on he matter, if his idle toying with the string is of any constellation.

Old habits die hard. Or Hiro simply fell off the wagon, so to speak.

Either way, he's reacquainted himself with his habit of tugging on the string. It's needlessly distracting.

Tadashi isn't one to be blinded by love or affection. He knows his otōto is no angel, not even close.

More often than not, Hiro defines the phrase bona fide brat.

It's the little things. He'll deconstruct the toaster for "time travel purposes" and rig the school cameras to fabricate evidence against the kid who gave him the stink eye in art class, but Tadashi grew up with the kid and that builds a natural tolerance.

(If he had a quarter for each time he's been asked "How do you manage him?" then safe to say he'd have no need for college scholarships.)

Oh, no. His renewed habit is what _really_ takes the cake. At times when all the gummy bears, prototypes, and unabashed whining bounce harmlessly off Tadashi's silent treatment, that little brat takes to coiling the string around his index finger and gently pulling.

_That_ never fails to snag Tadashi's full attention. He tries to ignore it, but each yank is a searing reminder that he's some kind of spiritually connected to his brother, and he has _no idea why_. It's unnerving and discomforting, and as a man of science, nothing gets under Tadashi's skin more than a lucky dip for answers that are unlikely to exist.

He wonders if Hiro knows. Maybe that glint in his eyes is the telltale melody of "I know something you don't know~!" His otōto is a genius, after all.

At this point, Tadashi doubts he'd be surprised. But nonetheless, it's nearly midnight, his exam is tomorrow and he isn't nearly prepared. And Hiro sits in his beanie chair across the room, watching him with a devious glint and a shit-eating grin.

Might as well get it over with.

"Can I help you?"

Hiro tilts his head, twisting the thread between his index finger and thumb. "What'cha doing?"

_Not now, Hiro_. _Please not now_. "Exams are next week, and I'm behind on my coursework. I need to study, Hiro. Go play with Mochi."

He turns back to his book to emphasize his point, as if removing Hiro from his line of sight is the direct tether to the younger's vocal chords. By this point, Tadashi is tired of lamenting his inexplicable naivety.

"Speaking of Mochi," Hiro muses, spreading his legs out in front of him, "seriously Tadashi, he's so _boring_. Cute, but in need of an upgrade."

That word is akin to a death toll. After the hovercraft incident in the park, they've been all but forbidden from using it, inside the house or out.

"What were you thinking?" He _immediately_ regrets asking.

Hiro dives into his lap a moment later, their noses touching and eyes locked. "Think about it, Tadashi." He leans back a little, jazz hands at the ready for dramatic flair. " _Rocket boots_."

Oh.

_Oh_.

Of all the things he might have expected, that very real glint of _I'm totally gonna do this_ in Hiro's eyes is the last thing Tadashi would've considered. And so _not_ the thing he needs.

"No."

"Just hear me out—"

"I said, _no_ ," Tadashi stresses, slamming his textbook shut. "This isn't up for debate. You'll give that poor cat a heart attack some day. Now, end of discussion."

Hiro is silent, frozen in his position. Then as the lack of teasing sinks in, his face wilts. Crumples, scrunches up. And he _pouts_. "When did you get so lame, 'Dashi?"

"I'm worried Mochi will go flying down the street and we'll never see him again." Tadashi shimmies his hips, and Hiro slinks gracelessly to the floor. "I still have nightmares about hovercrafts and drowning."

As Hiro claws his way back up onto the bed, Tadashi promptly vacates with an armful of textbooks.

"While we're young!" Hiro whines, flopping across the empty bed. "So you fail one test, s'not the end of the world! Besides, that's not possible for you, nerd."

"I'll take that as a vote of confidence."

Tiny arms latch onto his waist like Velcro, tugging him back onto the bed where Hiro nestles himself in Tadashi's lap.

Withholding a sigh, Tadashi musters the sternest look he's capable of. "Look, I'm busy. Really. Put a pin in this, we'll talk about it later."

"Promise me. And I'll only believe you if you lemme sit with you," says the little devil who has already positioned himself in Tadashi's lap.

"Fine, fine," Tadashi sighs, nudging Hiro's head down with his chin.

-0-

One day, Tadashi is confident he will be prepared to deal with Hiro's blatant foreshadowing.

It is, however, late at night when he wakes up to a giddy "yes!" and a distinctly Mochi-like bellowing. His sleep-addled mind pieces two and two together, and _oh god, Hiro please don't say you did it_ —

—Tadashi bolts upright in bed to collide with an airborne Mochi.

"Look, 'Dashi, look!" shrieks a voice of satisfaction, as the quivering cat _meow_ 's meekly against Tadashi's shirt. "I did it! You thought I couldn't—well, you _said_ I couldn't, but that's not the point—but look, look, look!"

For emphasis, Hiro punctuates each of those final syllables with a hefty yank on the string. Then the final yelp of, "'Dashi!" meets a climax as Hiro dives from his chair onto Tadashi's mattress, jostling all three occupants.

_Rocket boots_.

Hiro crept out of bed, snaffled the power tools, and made miniature rocket boots. For a cat. Mochi. A living test subject. Currently traumatized from his first flight.

"'Dashi, did you see? You saw, right? Hel- _loooo_ , earth to 'Dashi—?"

" _Hiro_ ," his tone is blunt, exasperated as he clamps his hands onto his brother's skinny shoulders, "why? Just why?"

He's tired—no, he's exhausted. And frustrated, baffled, irritated, a bit scared, and he's in no fit state of mind to conceal it from Hiro, who's lower lip juts out so prominently, he swears the kid has an extra bone there.

"Jeez, I thought you'd be proud of me, Tadashi."

_Proud?_

That short-wires Tadashi's thought process. "Of ... terrorizing Mochi?" (Who, once gadget-free, leaps off the bed and ambles downstairs, growling discontentedly the whole way.)

_Real smooth, there_.

Chocolate-brown eyes narrow. "For using my gift for something important," he grumbles.

It's a pin-prick in Tadashi's chest; eyes widening and lips parting, unable to form words. Those dejected eyes watch him briefly, then divert to Hiro's lap. And it feels as though Tadashi just slapped the kid.

_Tell him_. _Make this right_.

He cups Hiro's cheek and tilts his head to meet his eyes. "I _am_ proud of you, Hiro," he says, spilling sincerity into his voice. "I'll always be. Just ... try to limit your creativity so that test subjects aren't needed?"

Hiro perks up. "What if I tested it on myself?"

A nightmare flashes in Tadashi's vision, unadulterated horror compressed into a micro-second, playing out in all it's graphic detail. His reckless little brother, strapped into homemade rocket boots and flying head-first into a brick wall, soaring into the sky and surpassing the koi fish turbines, or just plain disappearing into the wilderness with only the blueprints as evidence to his venture.

"Absolutely _not_." Unconsciously, he tightens his grip on Hiro's shoulders, as if he'd skyrocket into space at the mere thought. "Do you want to give me a heart attack, otōto?"

"I heard it's bad to 'limit creativity'," he gripes.

That adorable pout subdues as Tadashi relents his grip to ruffle Hiro's perpetually messy hair. "Safe inventions can be fun, too," he says, smiling tiredly.

Small hands bat Tadashi's away. "You mean like ... a self-cleaning stove?"

_Yes, but no_. _Then again, the safest he'll ever think of_. "Sure. That'd help Aunt Cass, at least."

Big brown eyes sparkle at the idea. "Then she'd get to spend more time with us?" His beautiful little smile is infectious.

"See what I mean? Use your big brain for great things. Don't be afraid to start small, you don't need a robot army overnight." _Don't give him ideas_. "You could help a lot of people, Hiro."

That, however, dilutes his elation. "I don't like people," Hiro says seriously. "Why should I help them if they don't help me?"

_Because the world can be a better place; don't succumb and become a part of the problem_. "Not everybody is like that, Hiro," he whispers, feeling more helpless than he cares to acknowledge.

"Not all people. But enough."

It stings, like a pinch. "But not Aunt Cass, right?" he tries.

He's grasping straws. Maybe. On one hand, he means it. But on the other, is it the reassurance Hiro needs?

As his little brother look up at him with sparkling eyes, Tadashi's heart soars.

"Not you, either."

-0-

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Upon editing, I cut out a chunk. Waste not, want not, it's becoming a one-shot. :)


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When I'm happy, then I'm incapable of writing anything but gut-wrenching angst. But when terrrible things happen in real life, I need to write the fluffiness. :P So I present one choppily edited, semi-fluff fest!

Fine, he'll admit it.

_I'm a coward_.

A big, rotten, too-dastardly-to-put-into-words _coward_.

It unnerves him, more than anything, to be in a situation where the internet doesn't help. Right after it took him two months of hardcore procrastination, too. God, one might think Tadashi were gearing himself up to scour the parental-blocked internet for porn, if the way he glances over his shoulder and blushes as his trembling hands hover over the keys is evidence to the contrary.

But he had twenty minutes until Hiro was done with dish duty ("A suitable punishment for traumatizing my cat," Aunt Cass had scolded.) and he doubted he'd have worked up the nerve to do this again.

Tadashi had felt so ... so _naked_ , to delve into such unquestionably intimate details.

Leaving the real question as "why?"

And the answer: "I have no idea."

He hadn't a clue as to why the red string was such a personal subject to him. Jeez, it still didn't make sense! His limited scientific knowledge had amounted to diddly-squat in helping him deconstruct this thing. By all means, the string shouldn't exist.

Or rather, it _couldn't_ exist.

Tadashi was close to ripping his hair out by the time three sharp tugs signaled Hiro's freedom. In the fifteen seconds it took his little brother to dash upstairs, Tadashi had slammed the laptop shut and braced himself for Hiro's head-first dive into a hug.

Years of practice had yet to keep the impact from sending them both toppling off the bed. But prior knowledge had Tadashi strategically place a beanbag chair in the exact point of landing. Giggling flowed smoothly without grumbles of pain.

"Tadash _iii_ ," the younger boy whines against his brother's collarbone. "I can't feel my hands. Kiss me better?"

He gathers up his brother's tiny hands, rubbed raw from hours of exposure to soapy water and sponges. A series of light kisses peppered over each of Hiro's wriggling fingers elicits a giggle from his soft lips.

"What did you learn?" Tadashi croons mockingly, smiling at Hiro's eye-roll.

"That cats aren't meant to fly. But look at him—he gets fatter every day! I was doing him a _favour_."

"Sure, sure." He winks, deciding to ignore the disgruntled grumbling in favour of smothering Hiro in a hug. Cramped space aside, it's a comfortable moment curled up in the nest of beanbags.

"Tadashi?" comes the eventual question. Brown eyes blink up at him, Hiro tilting his head as he asks, "Why don't you talk to me?"

Of all the impending inquiries, this one catches Tadashi off guard. "Huh?" _Where's this coming from?_ "We do talk, Hiro," he says, smiling a little. "We're talking right now, aren't we?"

Aaand there's the frown. So goes the mood for light-hearted jabs.

"About _this_."

Oh.

Suddenly, it's awkward.

In Hiro's fist is—what else?—the source of Tadashi's concern. That very reason for all the blatant stalling and the blade that whittles down Hiro's miniscule patience.

(He wonders if this is what a cornered rabbit feels like?)

It's instinct, by this point, to answer with, "We'll discuss it when you're older."

Ah, the easy route. _Coward_.

"I _am_ older," Hiro huffs. "And my teacher said I'm mature for my age, so why can't you tell me?"

Whilst putting a pin in the question of which of his little brother's teachers may be confusing maturity with intelligence, Tadashi's brain races.

To tell, or not to tell? Lie for time, or man up and rip off the Band-Aid?

"Because—" Like always, his brain stalls. "—of reasons."

To which something truly horrifying happens. Hiro's expression, formerly scrunched up in a deep-set scowl, is smoothed out as his eyes widen to a comical size, frown coming loose as his lips part in shock.

Dread plants a seed in Tadashi's stomach as his brother whispers, "You don't know, do you?" in astonishment.

"Wh-why would you—" Gah! When did his vocal chords rust over?

Hiro's wide-eyed shock twisting into a malicious smirk is salt in the wound. "I know you, 'Dashi," the tiny devil mutters gleefully. "You get that look."

"Hiro—" he tries, but it takes a few coughs and a heavy swallow before Tadashi can utter, "What makes you say that?"

"Brothers know, 'Dashi. _I_ know. _You_ don't. 'Dashi doesn't know~" he sings.

It's going to be a _looong_ weekend.

"Hiro—"

Muffling his snicker with the cuff of his hoodie, Hiro's eyes sparkle. "Your face is _sooo_ red."

"I ... I can't deal with this." He shoves Hiro off his lap to clamber up on his bed, lying down with his eyes fixed up at the ceiling.

Hiro's face pops into view, rising over the end of the bed like a morning sun. "Really, you don't know?" His voice lacks his earlier mirth.

"No, Hiro. I don't know. I'm nearly eighteen and I still haven't figured it out." Man _alive_ , does that feel unexpectedly good to get off his chest.

"'Kay, then. It's a good thing I'm here. I _am_ the smart one."

Barely eleven years old, with an ego wider than Hiro is tall. With a flash of that gap-toothed smile, Tadashi feels his stomach drop.

"I'll figure it all out for you."

* * *

 

He supposes he should have seen it coming, when Hiro bounded home from school and insisted the two of them learn Morse code, but the implication in his words tickles Tadashi just so.

His little brother pouts. "Really, 'Dashi? Aren't you the one who's always telling me to use my big brain?"

"Yes, I am. But I was thinking more along the lines of changing the world for the better, and less to do with an alternative to texting in class."

"That really hurts, y'know. Ever considered that _maybe_ I'm interested in languages? We had fun back when you taught me Japanese."

"You wanted me to teach you the naughty words."

"Same difference. I learned something, didn't I?"

It's inevitable that somewhere along the line of Hiro's pestering, whining, and melodramatic hints (anything but the coveted silent treatment) Tadashi's willpower is ground to dust and he opens a new tab on his computer as Hiro settles himself in his lap.

After several hours of research on various websites, they've created a mash-up of crudely translated Morse code, seasoned with their own personal spin. While Tadashi points out there's no reason why they shouldn't stick to the book, Hiro insists for the fifth time that it's a pretty crappy secret language if they just copied-and-pasted from some anonymous halfwit online.

It's basic text. Simple phrases Hiro considers necessary to get both of them through the day, along the lines of _I'm bored_ , _come find me_ , _staying late tonight_ , and _I love you_.

Actually, that last one is Tadashi's input. Though Hiro rolls his eyes and calls him a sap, he doesn't protest.

* * *

 

It's as beautiful as he'd dared to hope.

San Fransokyo's Institute of Technology, a haven for technology of all brands, where purely the best of the best gain exclusive entry to flourish. Change the world, revolutionize the modern age, and push the boundaries of robotics.

And it's the only place Tadashi wants to be.

Inspiration buzzes through his veins as he walks through the lab, electricity crackling from his fingertips as he grazes them along workspaces, his heart beating in accordance to his mind churning out ideas one after the other; concepts impossible in the his homemade lab, but within his reach in the halls of SFIT.

" _You'd get your own lab, unlimited access to the tools of your choice, and the best sponsors tripping over themselves to get behind you_."

Tadashi has never wanted for much. At most, he'd spent nights wishing he was trapped in a freakishly lucid dream and would wake up at any moment to his father's smile and his mother's chiming laugh. But realistically, he's grateful for all he has.

This university, it's all he's ever wished for. Determination beats through his heart like adrenaline, and in an instant, anything feels possible.

He'll do this. Whatever it takes.

* * *

 

A bonus to living above a popular café: excellent studying grub.

Aunt Cass somberly informs him she understands the rough weeks ahead of him, then vows to make it as easy on him as possible. Energy drinks and cheap ramen is strictly forbidden, substituted for lattes and cookies fresh from the oven.

With a flyer for the upcoming admission tests stapled overhead, it's almost too easy to slip into "the zone."

It's ambitious, even for him. Hundreds, if not thousands of hopeful applicants aim for the scholarship programme every year, churning out impossibly high test scores and vast potential.

Tadashi can admit that he's smart, if not on the child prodigy level as his brother. And there lies the problem.

Grades and ideas only carry him one fraction of the way. He's not particularly special. But tuition for a school halfway as decent costs a pretty penny; he doesn't have the time to earn the money for it and he refuses to ask it of Aunt Cass when she's already done so much.

Thus, what choice does he have?

It's strictly routine: a continuous loop of studying and sleep. A delicate, but manageable balance with a solid goal in mind.

That is, until Hiro starts pining for affection.

His brother is considerate at first, content to arrange himself in Tadashi's lap then remain quiet as a mouse, the proximity alone enough to satisfy him. Occasionally he starts asking questions, ranging from "What's so great about the nerd school?" to "Do you think I can get studying food, too? Like a vending machine with gummy bears inside?" without dire need for responses.

Then impatience strikes.

"For someone so smart, you sure are dumb," Hiro comments one day, sat cross-legged on his bed. "I bet you can pass those exams in your sleep. Are you rubbing it in people's faces, how much smarter you are than them?"

"Not everyone gets to be a genius," Tadashi murmurs with a smile. "Some of us have to work to be this smart."

And there's the frown. "Well, sor- _ry_."

"Bored already?"

Hiro promptly averts his gaze by flopping on his back. "You're always busy, 'Dashi. Take a break and lets do something."

_Yes_ , Tadashi wants to say. If only five minutes, he owes it to his little brother. But like always, five minutes will turn into ten, then bleed into an hour, until the entire day has been wasted on battle-bots and prototype jet-packs. By which point the night will be spent in paranoia over being a whole textbook behind schedule.

"Later. I really need to finish this essay by Monday." Though with any luck, he'll be done in a few hours.

"Can't it be now, 'Dashi? We don't have to do anything, just talk. How about I talk and you just listen?"

"I really, _really_ can't, Hiro. I'm sorry, but I need to get this done. Rain check?"

With that, Tadashi turns back to the desk, words blurring on the paper in the silence between now and Hiro's long, low sigh.

"S-sure," Hiro mumbles. "Sure, whatever."

It takes a majority of self-control to suppress his brotherly instinct. But so lies the problem. Tadashi is past those peaceful days of naivety; he's expecting that first tug five minutes in.

_New record_ , he thinks dryly. Ignoring it, he leaves Hiro be.

But then comes the second. Tadashi sighs. Usual routine: Hiro will chip down on his well-honed patience one small movement at a time. It's all about endurance; letting boredom tighten it's hold on his little brother before whisking him away in a momentary huff.

By the end of the day, Mochi will be equipped with his own jetpack and laser gun.

_Three_.

His eyebrow twitches.

Hot damn, is this the stress of finals finally bubbling over the edges? He can _feel_ irritation crawling beneath his skin and tossing fuel on that spontaneous urge to throw something across the room for momentary relief.

But screw it. Tadashi is an older brother, the qualified guardian of a hell-raising genius. Enduring stress is what he does best.

_Four_.

"Hiro, knock it off."

Alright, back to the pages. He can do this. Just keep focused—

_Five_.

What was his assignment again?

"I mean it. I don't have time for—"

_Six_.

The textbook slams shut, his concentration shattered as Tadashi spins to face his brother. "Did Mochi hack at hairball in your gummy bears?" He only half means it that viciously.

Hiro, however, fully intends to snap: "I get it, okay! You're busy, tryin' to get into the _nerd school_. But there's other stuff going on, too."

"Other stuff needs to wait. I'm irritated, too. I wish I could spend time with you, but if I don't get this right the first time—"

"—then you have to apply next year? Oh, wow. Boo _hoo_." Expression oozing distain, Hiro slips himself off the bed and plants his hands on his hips. "What's the big deal? Normal people take a vacation. Once I get outta school, I'm never going back."

"Good for you, buddy. But _I_ want to go."

He takes a step closer. "And _I_ wanna talk to my brother."

"We talk all the time."

And another. "But you don't listen."

"I do—Hiro, I _do_ listen. But I have too much on my mind, as it is, and you're not making it any easier."

"'Dashi." Tiny hands grasp the older boy's sleeve, "You said if I ever wanted to talk, then I'm top priority. Well," and yank the older boy down _hard_ , making their foreheads collide. "I wanna talk."

Hiro **glares** at him with a level of distain that makes Tadashi wilt. Mostly. Because as adept as the tiny devil is at grinding Tadashi's resistance to dust, one can only be duped so many times before they learn.

Countless times before, Hiro has lit off identical schemes. Different methods for a the same result.

_Notice me, nii-chan!_ those brown eyes plead, and Tadashi cups Hiro's clenched fist.

"You _are_ my top priority." It isn't easy to loosen the younger's iron grip. "You always come first, Hiro, but I need to make room for other things, too." He runs his other hand through scruffy hair. "I'd make you my world if I could, but mine doesn't revolve around you."

He quenches the voice that shrieks _liar!_ at the back of his mind, and regrets it as Hiro's eyes lose their rage, slowly returning to their original size then beyond. Wide, disbelieving, stunned.

The death-grip on Tadashi's sleeve goes slack. "I ... see," the younger whispers. _Hurt_.

Guilt starts eating at him like a vat of acid. "It's bothering you, isn't it?" Willpower? That's a laugh. He has nothing when it comes to his otōto's well-being. "If it's that bad—"

"No!" Hiro snaps; the force of it makes Tadashi jump. "No, I'm not—" He frowns. Then pouts. "—you finish your stupid essay, and I'm not talking to you 'til you do."

"You're worrying me."

"Good! I heard that's what it's like in the _real world_ ; you worry all the time, and that's how you get wrinkles and die."

"Hiro—"

"You can come find me when you're done."

With a stomp to his step, Hiro flounces from the room and doesn't look back. Not when Tadashi hurries after him, or loops his arms around his waist and hoists him off the ground, fruitlessly coaxing co-operation from him with words of _come on, buddy, don't be like this_. But Hiro stays stubborn with his arms folded so tightly it's a miracle he can breathe.

Aunt Cass intervenes an hour into the pleading to usher him upstairs. "I told you I wouldn't let you procrastinate," she says. "He gets this from your mother's side—believe me, it's just easier this way."

Dejected, Tadashi returns to his study area with his feet dragging on every other step.

* * *

 

"Hiro?"

Two hours later and a completed assignment to show for it, Tadashi trudges back to his room as Aunt Cass sleeps, and Hiro's lips remain sealed.

The younger sits in a nest of beanbag chairs, eyes fixed out the window and back firmly to the door. The ever unpopular _I'm totally not mad, I'm just not talking to you right now_ pose that requires a buzz saw to cut through the ice Hiro encases himself in.

Silence. Obviously.

The air compresses around him.

Tadashi sighs. "Don't do this," he tries again. "I can't make this right if you won't meet me halfway."

To his credit, Hiro considers it for all of two seconds. "Say you're sorry."

He could apologize. Make this easy on them both. Get them caught in a repetitive loop where sorry makes everything better by pushing problems onto the back burner to fester and broil until the whole house comes burning down.

And he could, because he's a coward who can't refuse his little brother.

_Liar, liar, liar_. "I won't lie to you."

"Bye, then."

He's like a fish; tiny, slippery, and there one minute but gone the next. Hiro starts shifting in his seat; arms tightly folded, his butt shimmies side to side to sink him deep into his beanbag barrier.

Unfortunately for him, years of karate have gifted Tadashi with swift reflexes. He slides his hands under the younger's armpits once Hiro is waist-deep in foam beans. "Hiro, don't push me away. Please, just talk to me for once."

_Make me_.

_There's nothing to talk ABOUT_.

_Bite me, 'Dashi_.

A wide variety of answers. But then, Hiro chooses: "But you _don't_ talk to me," and Tadashi feels himself gape.

"I—"

"We used to talk all the time," Hiro gripes, his sharp glare dulled by the reluctant presence of tears. "But now you don't tell me anything. You don't tell me 'bout school, or robots, or _this_." He pinches the red string and holds it up in distain, as though its riddled with germs. "What's that about, Tadashi?"

_Extra syllable, full name, serious business_.

"Hiro—"

" _What's happening to us?_ "

A pause.

Hiro stares, lips pursed and eyes wide, as if he'd like to snatch the words from the air and cram them back down his throat, away from his brother's ears. Tadashi ...

... apparently isn't going to reply, as Hiro deflates, shoulders slumped and expression defeated.

Quietly, that it scarcely exists, Hiro whispers, "Am I losing you?" and it's an electric jolt down Tadashi's spine.

"Wh-what?" is his intelligent reply.

Half-submerged, Hiro turns to gaze up at him. "This is how it starts. Slow. You work late one night, I want to spend time with you, and we fight. We ... we don't make up. But you said you wouldn't leave, right? D-don't leave me."

"Hiro ... " He shouldn't, he really shouldn't. Hiro is worried, but at the same time, so cute in his fretting; all wide-eyes and pink cheeks. And Tadashi smiles warmly. "Whatever gave you that idea, knucklehead?"

"Mr. and Mrs. Satou."

The names instantly bring up mental images. They're regulars in the café; he lives for caffeine and she adores fudge brownies. Early thirties, going strong since before Hiro was born.

Well, until ...

"They're divorcing. They loved each other, they really did. But now, they—" He shudders. "—they ... _don't_. I heard one minute you swear you love someone and you'll stay together forever, but then—then that happens. And there's nothin' you can do."

Tadashi's heart aches.

"It happens slow. You don't even notice it until one day you're all lovey-dovey, then five seconds later you're yelling and stuff. I-I didn't mean to make you mad, Tadashi. I really, _really_ didn't. You believe me, right? I won't put rocket boots on Mochi, I won't bother you when you're studying, I promi—"

A hand clamps over his mouth, stifling his squeak of surprise, and doe-like eyes stare up at Tadashi, spilling tears across the younger's cheeks.

"Hiro," he starts slowly, keeping his words firm and steady, "if anything remotely like that were to happen, then I _think_ it would've happened a long time ago."

A knife gouges a hunk out of his stomach as Hiro looks guilty.

"But look at me. Look at _us_."

Hiro proceeds to do so, muffling what sounds akin to: _but we're fighting_.

"So what if we argue. Brothers do that. Family does that. Remember Project H?" He can feel Hiro smirk beneath his palm. "We're still here. Always will be."

He's silent for a while, blinking slowly a few times. Then he reaches up to peel Tadashi's hand from his face, but keeps hold of it. "Promise, right? Pinky swear—you can't break that."

"As if I would." But he offers his little finger nonetheless, which Hiro promptly hooks around his. "I promise."

* * *

 

He's midway to his usual spot outside the elementary school when the string acts up. Not a subtle pull or a pulse of warmth, but a trembling that churns discomfort in his stomach. A dull vibration races along the red trail, as though someone holds it taunt and plucks the string to a melody meant for a harp. It doesn't hurt, far from it, but it's distinct enough that Tadashi knows he won't be able to ignore it.

As if he had a choice.

He could have eternity to piece together an explanation as to why, but it would remain impossible to fathom a reason as to how he knows Hiro needs him. _Now_.

So he breaks into a run and follows the trail. It's a short path; Tadashi turns the corner, and the world is tinted **red.**

Tiny stature and scruffy hair, he'd recognize his little brother in any crowd. And this particular get together involves Hiro on the ground, bare knees scuffed and shreds of skin clinging to his palms, surrounded by three towering boys projecting a hostile aura, even before they make a move.

A blonde, stocky boy raises his fist and Hiro closes his eyes in preparation for the blow that never connects. While Tadashi isn't an athlete, his mind is his weapon, equipped with seven years of studying martial arts and a black belt in karate. In under a minute, the three bullies have been swiftly dealt with, and Hiro watches his brother with a pitiful mixture of awe and shame.

Malicious the boys may be, they aren't dumb enough to rise towards a futile challenge. By the time they've scurried away out of sight, Hiro gathers himself back to his feet and slaps away Tadashi's offered hand.

The blow stings more than it should.

* * *

 

It's an odd feature. Downright surreal, he'd admit. Terrifying for reasons he can't explain. But Tadashi can't deny the usefulness of his borderline sixth sense, as loathe he is to need it.

Hiro babbles out a hasty lie as Tadashi bandages up his cuts. Something about a bet gone wrong, how Tadashi saw it _way_ out of context, and that honestly, there's absolutely nothing to worry about.

"I swear."

First and foremost, Tadashi is an older brother. As good a liar as Hiro may be, it's a transparent wild card against him. He can _see_ the lie prancing cruelly in hurt brown eyes, desperation mingling with shame of losing the battles he needs to fight.

"Whatever context makes this—" He dabs disinfectant on Hiro's knee. "—look harmless, I don't want to know it. But Hiro, if they're hurting you—"

"They're _not_."

"—then please, _please_ don't keep it to yourself. It doesn't make you weak to ask for help."

He hadn't known what to expect from those words. Lying skills aside, Hiro is prideful. Too arrogant for his own good and unashamed to flaunt it. He'll never accept help, much less ask for it.

But then, nor does Hiro roll his eyes and sigh, "Fine. Whatever makes you feel better, nii-san."

With his wounds patched up, bandages covered by too-long sleeves and baggy jeans (" _Don't_ tell Aunt Cass about it. You'll make her worry about nothing."), Hiro slips off the bathroom counter and retreats to his bed, sliding the partition screen across without saying goodnight.

Tadashi lies awake at midnight, his own portion of the room open as he stares wistfully at the quivering bow around his pinky. He tells himself Hiro needs time, that his otōto will come to him once he's ready to talk or hug it out, but the plan to stay away for as long as it might take are promptly trashed as he hears a brush against fabric, and muffled sobs emit from behind Hiro's side of the screen.

The cold wood floors pinch his feet as Tadashi swiftly kicks aside his duvet and crosses the room. He could knock on the wall, call out Hiro's name, give the younger time to wipe away his tears and feign being asleep. Leave his precious otōto to suffer in silence as he turns a willful blind eye.

Direct attempts had always been the only method to get through Hiro's thick skull.

Tadashi slides back the screen, unhindered by Hiro's panicked gasp and ignoring the younger's garbled attempts of an excuse to scoop him up into a hug, duvet and all.

"'D-Dashi—"

"Let me help you, Hiro. C'mon, you and me, like always. We promised we'd look out for each other, remember?"

"I'm ten years old, 'Dashi. I don't need you babying me all the time. _Nothing is wrong_. Don't you trust me, anymore? Why else wouldn't you believe me?"

"Because evidence says to the contrary."

And there's so much of it that Tadashi feels the guilt pulsing from within him. Physical violence must be a recent thing, all things considered, but how about the emotional part? Verbal assault, mental games, and malicious pranks?

_Sticks and stones may break my bones, but words leave psychological damage that never heals_.

Hiro ... oh god, _Hiro_ —who frowns up at the worst older brother in San Fransokyo. "You can fake evidence, but I say I'm fine. Completely _fine_ ," he growls. "Now leave me alone."

Whoever said words couldn't hurt deserved a slap upside the head.

Tadashi's voice cracks as he says, "Hiro—" Then two firm little hands latch into his shoulders and shove weakly. Embrace faltering, he stares down ... right into brown eyes that shimmer with a film of tears.

" _Please!_ " Hiro's urges, his voice thick. "'Dashi, please ... " Then the tears spill over, salty trails smoothing over flushed cheeks as Hiro slumps under an invisible burden and whispers, "Stop it," in a failing voice.

Something in Tadashi breaks.

He moves mechanically, brain short-circuiting against a sucker punch. Tadashi is back on the other side of the partition screen by the time his mind boots up the emergency power.

"H-Hiro," he croaks gingerly. His tongue darts over dry lips before he tries again. "You know I'm on your side ... right?"

For a full five minutes, Tadashi stands bare foot on the chilly floor before he receives a reply, spoken so quietly he barely hears it.

"Yeah. Yeah, 'course."

* * *

 

It's a lazy Saturday morning. Just like any other, a stranger might claim. But by the time Tadashi finishes clearing up the tables in the café, he finds Hiro sat in his nest of beanbags, glazed eyes directed out the window.

Unlike multiple occasions Tadashi has stumbled unto this scene before, this time he comes with a plan.

"Hey, cheer up."

It's a very half-assed effort Hiro puts into smiling. One that almost makes Tadashi discard careful planning in order to dash across the room and apply a home remedy of hugs and kisses until the world is sunshine and gummy bears again.

_Think of the long-term, Tadashi_. _Stick to the plan_.

Oh yes, a plan. It's risky, likely doomed to failure, and will get him into a _lot_ of trouble. But for the sake of Hiro, for his happiness and well-being, Tadashi would build those damn rocket boots and send Mochi to the moon, if that was the code to making Hiro smile again.

Fortunately, while said plan might encourage those mental blueprints, nobody will be airborne anytime soon. So long as he stuck to the stages.

_Step One: get Hiro's interest_.

Plonking his bag onto his bed, Tadashi rummages around inside until his fingers graze across cellophane and Hiro turns his head at the familiar sound. "Doctor's orders: a handful of gummy bears a day. I know you don't like taking medicine and all, but d'you think you can manage that?"

He retracts the bag and tosses it neatly across the room, landing smack-dab in Hiro's lap. Then comes silence for one, two, three seconds before—

"Why?"

"If you don't them, I'll take them back."

Hiro, his face formerly scrunched with suspicion, curls defensively around the packet.

_I'll take that as a no_.

In the most casual manner his mediocre acting skills allow, Tadashi tosses his bag neatly beside his bed before crossing the room to sit by the computer. He spins his chair towards the screen, back to Hiro and prickling under the weight of his otōto's accusing stare.

Three, two one ...

"What's this about?" comes the inquiry. From his tone of voice, Tadashi doesn't need to look to confirm the expression on Hiro's face.

So he smiles to himself and cheerfully offers, "Can't I be nice to my little brother? The whole bullying big brother angle wouldn't work for me. That's okay, isn't it?"

He can _feel_ the sharpening of Hiro's stare severing his self-control.

"I have a surprise for you, Hiro." He spins in his chair to face his brother directly. "It's way better than gummy bears."

Rather than intrigued, Hiro looks scandalized. "Better than _gummy bears?_ " he asks skeptically.

It's hard not to grin. " _Way_ better."

* * *

 

When Hiro cooperates, life's mysteries become easy to unravel. As does sneaking out and navigating through San Fransokyo under the cover of darkness.

And trespassing? A piece of cake.

Together, they weave through the spacious campus to make a beeline towards the grand building, front and centre.

San Fransokyo's Institute of Technology. Highly prestigious, dangerously brutal, an arena for the best, and a degree reserved _only_ for the ones who survive.

From the last time he was here, Tadashi mapped out a plan on the fly. Smuggle Hiro inside, creep into the rafters, keep a low profile, and watch the magic happen.

Steps one to three go off without a hitch. They sit behind a railing, out of sight, out of mind, and the showcase unfolds beneath them.

Best seats in the house? Highly debatable. But nevertheless, the view is _stunning_.

Countless pieces of tech, robotics Tadashi couldn't begin to find a name for, all scattered about the enormous hall in a mosaic of sheer, breathtaking scope.

Then a hand sharply yanks his sleeve, and Tadashi meets a suspicious pair of brown eyes.

"Okay, spill," Hiro gripes. "Why'd you bring me here?"

Tadashi manipulates his expression into one of pure innocence. "What, what? Can't I break a few rules here and there?" He tilts his head. "You're always the one telling me to loosen up and enjoy being young. Make up your mind, otōto."

With his arms folded, Hiro shakes his head, eyes never wavering. "Nu-uh. Not buying it."

"I wanted to do something nice for my brother. Is that better?"

"A little. But that's pushing the limits of my suspension of disbelief."

"Then how about I let you in on a little secret?" Hiro raises his eyebrows, but doesn't dissuade him. "After graduation, this is where I want to go. That orientation tour my class took last semester? It really opened my eyes."

Chocolate-brown eyes narrow. " _Unbelievable_ ," Hiro grumbles. "Do you know how to have fun, 'Dashi? Man, if I weren't around, you'd have gray hair. And stress wrinkles. Then they'd only let you in here as a crabby old professor."

"Words hurt, Hiro."

"You're halfway there, anyway. What with the clothes 'n all."

"How do I know you're not just jealous? Not everybody can pull off the eighty-year old look with such aplomb."

"Hate to break it to you, bro, but you're not funny, either."

"Knucklehead."

"Nerd."

* * *

 

Tadashi can feel the change, even now.

Enraptured, Hiro watches the night unfold with such youthful curiosity it makes Tadashi's heart swell. Any semblance of concern or fear takes a backseat as he coils his arms around his brother's waist, chin resting in a mass of inky hair as he lets the array of robotics occupy his mind.

Reality makes an unwelcome gatecrash in the form of a ginger yank on the string.

But budding irritation at the disruption is washed away as Hiro murmurs, "You don't have a clue what this is, do you?"

He wonders when he'll finally learn not to underestimate Hiro in any subject. "Short answer, no," he sighs. "Believe me, I've tried to make sense of it."

Hiro idly twists the thread through his fingers. "'S not like we can ask, right? I mean, I've looked for anyone else, but there's nothing."

"You and me both."

"How long's it been here? Did it just appear one day?"

"For as long as I can remember. And that's, like, before you were alive to be on the end of it."

A cheeky smirk dominates Hiro's lips. "Lemme guess, you freaked out?"

"I took it in stride, you little brat."

"Sure, sure. It's the sorta thing that happens every day, after all."

He's a split-second from replying when the lights promptly dim, severing Tadashi's train of thought, and a single spotlight hones upon the main stage across the hall.

From thereon out, the magic unfolds. One-by-one, the stage is occupied by a genius in this field and that, commanding technology at the fingertips as it all unfolds before twin sets of brown eyes, and Tadashi smiles, because _this_ is what it means to know precisely where he and his baby brother belong.

He returns to reality in unison with a tug on his finger, and looks down just as Hiro tilts his head up, brown eyes peaking through a dark fringe.

"'Dashi?" the younger murmurs. "If it means anything, and I'm not saying it does, but _if_ we figure it out and it's bad, well ... we'll still be good, right? Like, if it means that if one of us dies then the other will, too, you promise you won't pad me up with bubble wrap and keep me in the closet, right?"

"Then don't give me any reason to tempt me." It earns him a sloppy headbutt to the chin.

"I mean it! Promise me that nothing has to change."

He holds up his finger, which is automatically linked by Hiro. "I promise. And we'll figure this out together, okay? Just like always."

* * *

 

They should talk about it. Tadashi _wants_ to discuss this abnormality with Hiro, but his mind draws a permanent blank on how to breach the subject.

Sure, there's Fred's route on spontaneity. He could dive head-first into things without a plan or a Get Out Of Jail Free card, but it takes all of one look at Hiro with the subject matter in mind for Tadashi's brain to short circuit and his nerve to head for the hills.

So yes. He's hopeless. But it's a Friday night that boasts another failed attempt at talking, and Hiro is sprawled across his lap, eliciting kitten snores as the TV buzzes mutely in the background. The time for potentially awkward discussions can come later—it's times like these he wants to enjoy.

It's an excuse. Genuine truth lies behind it, but it's an excuse nonetheless.

They'll never talk about it; that much is clear as crystal. Maybe that's why Tadashi doesn't expect it when things just ... _happen_.

* * *

 

Tadashi is in the middle of an exam when the tugging starts up: _S_. _O_. _S_. _!_

Inner drama queen aside, Hiro explicitly promised not to use that code unless protocol demands it and four months on, that promise stands. Enough that it takes Tadashi a moment to translate the neglected phrase.

_What's wrong?_

_Come find me_.

_Rain check_.

The other end is dormant and Tadashi knows chances are high his brother is glaring at the nearest inanimate object. It doesn't stop him from whizzing through the remainder of the exam and tossing it across the teacher's desk as he dashes out of the room.

_Where are you?_

_Home_.

This doesn't bode well, Tadashi thinks. He recalls Hiro being whisked away to the principal's office more than once that week, but given his otōto's newfound love of public pranks, it's an occurrence Tadashi doesn't think twice about anymore.

He's home in record time, spares a few moments to greet his aunt, then climbs the stairs to find Hiro sat cross-legged in his beanbag chair. The younger doesn't give him the chance to inquire.

"They want me to skip a few grades."

Tadashi blinks, eyes fixed on the portrait of sheer misery his brother embodies. "Again?"

Hiro slaps his hands to his face, nails digging into his temple as he groans. "Yeah, 'Dashi. _Again_."

It's a bitter routine and a freakishly common recurrence. Hiro had barely memorized the halls of elementary school before he was thrust into middle school, too tiny in the sea of green-eyed preteens with a frail hold on morality.

Tadashi has seen the bruises, their origins, and the emotional scars they inflicted. Hiro has reason to be terrified he'll never reach puberty.

"Otōto." He settles himself opposite Hiro so the younger can't look away. "Remember what happened six years ago?"

It's next to impossible to get Hiro to consider indulging affection in public, but up in their sanctuary away from prying eyes, he openly burrows himself into Tadashi's hug.

"I promised we'd be okay, didn't I?"

He rubs Hiro's back amidst shuddering sobs, gently rocking them both and smoothing Hiro's wild hair.

* * *

 

Growing up with two wayward boys, Aunt Cass is far more savvy than she gets credit for. It takes one glance at Hiro's sullen face and she doesn't breach the subject of education, grades, or negativity of any kind.

Hiro is tight-lipped throughout dinner, swirling rice around his plate with a dark cloud over his head. But Tadashi can still pull off the puppy-dog look well enough to silently convince him to join in movie night.

It's nearing midnight by the time both brothers are in bed, and Hiro finally breaks his silence.

"High school, 'Dashi." His voice yanks the older back from the brink of slumber. " _High school_."

Tadashi rolls on his side, peering at the outline of the lump that is Hiro. "Think of it this way: you hate school, so by skipping several grades you'll be done with it sooner."

Hiro grumbles into his pillow.

Really, it's only natural by this point. Tadashi coils the string around his finger and taps out: _I'm proud of you_.

It takes Hiro five whole minutes to respond with the ever popular: _Love you, too_.

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Because obviously, when you're connected by an invisible string, it's meant to be used like this. :)


End file.
